“You’re supposed to rest when we go home,” I remind her, not for the first time.
“I am resting,” she says, completely unbothered. “See? Even now. I’m sitting.”
“That is not the same thing.”
She smiles, eyes drifting out the window. “The doctor said I could come home.”
“The doctor said you could come homeifyou rest,” I correct. “And you promised me you would.”
“I did.”
“And you’re going to keep that promise,” I press.
She turns her head just enough to look at me, that familiar spark in her eyes. “I am. I have very important motivation now.”
I narrow my eyes. “If you say Larry?—”
“Larry,” she sings immediately, with zero shame. “Larry, Larry, Larry.”
I eek out a laugh despite myself. “You are unbelievable.”
“I’m motivated,” she says sweetly. “You should be proud.”
“I’m deeply concerned.”
She pats my arm like I’m the one being dramatic, and I shake my head, but the tension in my chest has eased. Walking pneumonia that was caught early. She needs some rest, medication, and a few days in bed. Barring the sprained wrist from her fall, she’s okay.
That’s what matters.
By the time we pull into the driveway, I’m already in motion—grabbing her bag, helping her out of the car, one hand hovering near her elbow even when she insists she doesn’t need it.
Inside, the house feels the same and not the same all at once. Like something in our foundation was rocked while we were gone, even though everything is exactly where we left it.
I get her settled on the couch first. Within minutes she’s tucked in, pillows adjusted, water within reach, medication lined up like I’m running a very strict operation.
“There,” I say, hands on my hips. “You’re not moving from here until you need to go to the bathroom.”
She looks entirely too pleased about it. “Your wish is my command.”
I roll my eyes, but I lean down and press a quick kiss to her forehead before stepping back.
“I’ll go put your things away and get your bedroom ready, then I’ll make a list and go to the store.” I wag a finger in her direction. “But you stay put, got it?”
She gives me a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”
I give her one last look—just to be sure—before slipping out of the room and starting my tasks.
The house is quiet. Too quiet. I reach for my phone as I move into the kitchen, more out of habit than anything. I scan my textsto make sure nothing new has popped up, and then I stop when I see the name and string of messages I sent but are still unanswered.
So odd.
Hey, checking in—how’s the workshop?
Do you need anything?
Are the girls behaving?
Good news—Grandma’s doing better. She gets to come home.
