Sarah’s grand performance was completely over.
I slept soundly that night. The kind of deep, restorative sleep you only get when you know you’ve done exactly the right thing.
I drove back home on Sunday afternoon. The street was quiet.
The only car in the driveway was Leo’s compact sedan.
I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The house was a mess.
Pizza boxes were stacked on the kitchen island. Crumbs littered the rugs, and a heavy silence hung in the air.
I didn’t get angry. I didn’t sigh or start picking up trash.
I just stood in the hallway and waited.
Leo walked out of the living room. He looked exhausted.
Dark circles hung under his eyes and his shoulders were slumped forward.
He stopped when he saw me, swallowing hard.
“Mom,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re back.”
“I am,” I replied calmly.
“It was awful,” he mumbled, looking down at the floorboards. “Sarah’s parents left early. Her whole family is barely speaking to her. She hasn’t come out of the guest room in 2 days. We… We messed up. I’m sorry.”
He looked up at me, his eyes pleading.
He was waiting for the soft, yielding mother he had known his whole life. He was waiting for me to pull him into a hug, tell him it was okay, and start scrubbing the pizza grease off the counter.
I didn’t move.