no one moved. The rain whispered against the porch roof. The television in the living room switched to a commercial with music too cheerful for the house.
Then Tessa shoved her phone into her pocket and stalked past him.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered.
Celeste followed more slowly, chin high, purse strap clenched in one fist. At the threshold, she stopped and turned.
“When you remember who raised you,” she said, “you’ll call me and apologize.”
Darius held the door open.
“When Amara gets the first apology,” he said, “I might pick up.”
He shut the door.
The click of the latch sounded final.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Then Ivy coughed again, a deep little cough that made Darius’s anger bend into fear.
He crossed the kitchen and reached for her. “Come here, star girl.”
Ivy lifted one hand toward him and melted into his chest. Her skin was hot against his neck. She smelled like baby shampoo, sweat, and medicine.
“I’m home,” he whispered, kissing her damp forehead. “I’m so sorry.”
Amara stood by the stove, one hand resting on the counter as if it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Darius looked at her properly then.
There were shadows under her eyes. Her lips were dry. A small smear of rice clung to the sleeve of her hoodie. Her face held so many things at once that he could barely read them: relief, fear, disbelief, exhaustion, and a sadness that had been gathering long before he opened the door.
He reached for her with his free arm.
At first, she did not move.
Then she covered her mouth, and the tears came.
Darius pulled her close carefully, Ivy between them. Amara pressed her forehead to his shoulder, and her body shook with silent crying.
“I should have come home sooner,” he said.
“You couldn’t,” she whispered.
“I should have listened better.”
She did not answer.
That silence told him more than any accusation could have.
He turned off the stove fully, moved the pan to a cold burner, and checked Ivy’s temperature. The number made his stomach tighten. It was high, but not high enough to panic if they could get it down and watch her closely. He reached for his phone.
“We’re calling the nurse line,” he said. “Then I’m cleaning this kitchen. Then you’re sleeping.”
Amara wiped her face. “She needs another dose in twenty minutes. I wrote it down.”
Of course she had.
There was a piece of paper beside the medicine bottle. Times, temperatures, doses, symptoms. Her handwriting started neat Monday evening, then grew slanted and rushed by Wednesday. The last entry was from forty minutes before he arrived.
Darius stared at it.
A record of care.
A record of being alone.
Then Amara’s phone lit up on the counter.
The message banner showed Tessa’s name.
Tell him what really happened Monday.
Amara lunged for the phone, but Darius saw the words first.
The kitchen went quiet again.
He looked at her. “What happened Monday?”
“Not now,” she said quickly.
“Amara.”
Her eyes shone. “Please. Ivy needs—”
“Ivy needs us both calm. She needs medicine. She needs a doctor if this gets worse. And I need to know why my sister thinks there’s something you’re hiding.”
Amara stared at the phone
