I got the text at 11:03 p.m.—no name, just the number blinking insistently.

“She’s awake. But she’s not herself. Come alone.”

First thought: prank. Second thought: trap. My gut told me something was off—that Paige had found a way back in without anyone noticing. The wind rattled the windows, the house felt smaller somehow, and I realized I hadn’t felt this kind of dread in years. Whatever waited at the end of that hospital corridor wasn’t just my mother—it was the ghost of every choice I’d tried to control.

I was still in scrubs, barefoot, staring at a mug of cold coffee on the kitchen island when the message arrived.

The family reunion. 47 people. Four days. Stock the fridge by Friday.

No question mark. No discussion. Just a directive, like someone had grown comfortable treating generosity as public property.

Milo was curled on the couch with her Switch, one crooked braid, one sock missing. At eleven, she greeted mornings like a surprise someone had sprung on her without warning. I stared at Paige’s text until the screen dimmed, then flickered to life again as if reminding me silence counted as a response.