We left that day. Drove home in silence while Ava slept in the back seat.
Patricia didn't fight us. Didn't follow. She just stood on the porch, waving, as if we'd be back tomorrow.
The diagnosis came quickly: Patricia had schizophrenia, undiagnosed for decades, worsened by age and isolation. The grief over Michael—real, devastating grief—had twisted into something darker. She'd created a world where he never left. And when Ava arrived, she'd pulled her granddaughter into that world.
Ava saw a child psychologist for six months. Slowly, carefully, they untangled the threads of the secret. She stopped setting aside toys. Stopped talking to empty air.
But sometimes, late at night, she still whispers to someone I can't see.
And I never ask who.
