PARKER
Coming home feels like walking straight into a tangle of soft noise and sharp guilt.
Lyra’s squeal is the first thing I hear. Then the thump-thump-thump of her socked feet slapping against the wood floor before she crashes into me full-speed and wraps both arms around my waist like she’s trying to fuse us back together. “Mommy! You’re home!”
I drop my duffel by the door, kneel, and hug her tightly, her little face smashed into my sweater, her curls catching under my chin.
“Hey, baby,” I breathe into her hair. “I missed you.”
She pulls back and squints at me, accusing. “Grandma made me eat vegetables.”
“God forbid.”
“Green ones. With flecks.”
“Flecks?”
“I dunno. She said it was healthy.” She makes a face I suspect she’ll master by the time she’s a teenager. Part eye roll, pa
