She touched a container of broth.
Then she closed the door.
“I want soup,” she said.
David smiled.
“I can manage that.”
“You burned water once.”
“That was years ago.”
“You forgot the pot was on the stove.”
“I was distracted.”
“You were watching a basketball game.”
David lifted his hands.
“I have grown.”
Maya sat at the table while he warmed the soup.
Liam slept nearby.
For twenty quiet minutes, they were simply a family returning home.
No secrets.
No cameras.
No accusations.
Just steam rising from bowls and winter sunlight on the floor.
Then the front door buzzer sounded.
David froze.
Maya looked toward the hall.
The buzzer sounded again.
David checked the building monitor.
His mother stood in the lobby.
Alone.
No sunglasses. No expensive coat. No controlled smile.
She looked older than she had three days earlier.
“Don’t let her in,” Maya said.
David nodded.
