Sunday evening arrived faster than expected. I had cleaned the entire house, slept ten hours straight, and actually finished a book. For the first time in years, I felt human again.
When Patricia's car pulled into the driveway, I rushed outside to greet them.
Ava climbed out slowly. Too slowly.
"Baby! Did you have fun?" I scooped her up.
She nodded. But she didn't speak. Didn't launch into her usual avalanche of details about every single thing that had happened.
"She's just tired," Patricia said quickly, handing me Ava's bag. "We had a full weekend. Baking, walks, stories... you know."
I smiled. "Thank you so much. Did she behave?"
"An angel," Patricia said. But she didn't meet my eyes.
I noticed. I noticed a lot of things. The way her hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly. The way she kissed Ava goodbye—on the forehead, not the cheek. The way she drove away without her usual wave.
But I pushed it aside. Tired grandmothers. Long drives. Nothing to worry about.
