My reflection stared back from the black screen—gray roots peeking through a careful dye job, hospital‑yellow bruises blooming from surgical tape, a throat gone tight with that old mixture of love and dread only family can mix to perfection. The surgeon had ordered six to eight weeks of rest. My little brick bungalow still carried the thin, medicinal bite of antiseptic from the visiting nurse; the walker’s tennis balls whispered over hardwood like a metronome. Even the kettle—my dented faithful—clicked off too loudly.

Ashley didn’t care. She married my son fifteen years ago and has treated me like unpaid staff ever since. Need a sitter? Call Grandma Dot. After‑party cleanup? Grandma Dot. Forty‑three years of nursing, a husband buried three years back, a house that echoes like a church after service—none of it factored into her math.

At 2:30 on the dot, the doorbell. Through the lace curtain: Ashley, parade‑marshal stride. Emma, twelve, tugged in her wake. Jake, nine, wrestling a damp‑eyed six‑year‑old Lily and a rabbit with one ear. Emma’s uniform wrinkled, Jake’s shoes mismatched. Ashley wore sunglasses big enough to shade a conscience.