THE late evening sun streamed through the windows of the Grimes' living room, casting a warm glow over the well worn furniture.
Mr. Grimes, always a man of few words, sat as usual, in his favorite armchair, his hands folded over his stomach, eyes narrowed as he considered the conversation they were about to have. Beside him, his wife was perched on the edge of the sofa, her knitting in her lap, though her hands were still.
Across from them, Kate, their eldest daughter, lay sprawled on the opposite couch, her legs draped lazily over the armrest, idly flipping through her phone, as always.
It was Mrs. Grimes who broke the silence, her voice sweet and smooth, like honey laced with something sharper.
“Kate,” she called, “your father and I have been talking, and we think it is finally ti
