My phone vibrated twice against the table before I could get the lid off my cup.

The caller ID showed my mother’s contact photo, taken four years ago at a church summer picnic.

I swiped the green button and lifted the phone to my ear.

“Iris?” Eleanor asked softly.

Her voice was thin and strained, completely stripped of the sweet, coaxing tone she used at the dinner table at home.

“I’m here, Mom,” I said.

“Your father is sitting out in his green pickup truck in the driveway,” she said.

She paused for two seconds, and I heard the faint rustle of her cardigan sleeves.