Michelle stood in the guest room, one suitcase already open on the bed, clothes folded with a care that felt almost ironic given how unsteady her hands were.
She folded a sweater. Placed it carefully inside the suitcase.
This was what she did when her heart was too loud, she organized. She packed. She made exits neat and quiet so no one would accuse her of making a mess.
The house was alive now. Footsteps downstairs. Daisy’s voice, bright, animated, hopeful. The clink of dishes. The hum of a kettle.
A family rhythm.
Not hers.
Michelle zipped the smaller compartment shut and reached for another blouse when the door opened.
No knock.
No warning.
She froze.
Imani stood in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, her posture rigid and territorial in a way that immediately set Michel
