The faint sound of running water came from the kitchen. I walked quietly down the hallway—and stopped at the doorway.
My daughter stood at the sink, washing dishes.
Thin sweater.
Hunched shoulders.
Hands trembling.
She didn’t hear me come in.
At the table behind her sat her husband, Mark, and his mother, Eleanor. They wore warm sweaters. Plates of hot food in front of them. They were laughing.
Comfortable.
Eleanor pushed her empty plate aside.
Mark stood abruptly, grabbed it, and barked toward the kitchen:
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