It was a Tuesday morning in late October, the kind where the light slipped in through the kitchen window in thin, gold ribbons and made the steam from my mug swirl like tiny ghosts. I was sitting at the small wooden table, the one Daniel had bought at a thrift shop on Maple Street, stirring a spoonful of sugar into my coffee, when the phone rang. The ringtone was a bright, tinny version of “You’re My Best Friend” that my mother used to hum, and I could hear the faint echo of the dishwasher humming in the background.
“Hey, love,” Daniel’s voice came through, warm but still carrying that faint edge of tiredness that comes from waking up early for a shift at the hospital.
“Hey, how are the girls?”
