Dorothy arrived on Wednesday afternoon, exactly on time, the way she always was.
Mara had taken the afternoon off — a rarity that hadn't gone unnoticed by Priya, who'd raised an eyebrow but said nothing — and was in the kitchen when she heard the knock. She opened the door to find her grandmother standing on the step in her good coat, the one she wore for occasions she'd decided mattered, holding a small box of pastries from the bakery near her flat.
"You didn't have to dress up, Gran," Mara said, kissing her cheek.
"I always dress up to see my granddaughter," Dorothy said, stepping inside. "Now. Where is this house I keep hearing about."
Mara gave her the tour — the living room, the kitchen, the shelf where her mother's photograph sat, which made Dorothy go quiet for a moment in a way
