“I can sleep tomorrow afternoon,” Martha insisted, though her neck muscles strained as she tried to keep her arm still under the napkin.

“You are trying to do everything in this house by yourself.”

“Ethan is working on a presentation,” I said, keeping my voice level.

“We have it under control, Mom.”

Martha looked toward the kitchen, where the clicking of Ethan’s keyboard sounded like rapid hail against glass.

She did not argue, but her quiet gaze stayed on me.

“Do not let your pride run you into the ground,” Martha said softly.

I helped her coat back on and walked her down the porch steps, watching her sedan turn the corner before I locked the front door.