It sounded caught.
For two months, I had felt her watching me every Saturday morning. Not in a creepy way. At least that was what I told myself.
She had moved in at the beginning of spring with too many boxes of books, one old porch swing, and an enormous green plant she talked to like it had disappointed her.
I was Owen Mitchell, thirty-four, divorced, and trying to raise my daughter without turning into one of those dads who thought making frozen waffles counted as emotional availability.
Most Saturdays, I mowed the lawn while Sophie drew chalk kingdoms in the driveway.
That was our reset.
The rest of the week was work, school pickup, dinner, laundry, custody schedules, and pretending I had everything under control.
But Saturday morning was simple.
Grass.
Sunlight.
