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

“You’re trying to do everything in this house on your own.”

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

“We have it handled, Mom.”

Martha glanced toward the kitchen, where Ethan’s keyboard clicked like fast hail against glass.

She didn’t argue, but her quiet eyes stayed on me.

“Don’t let your pride run you into the ground,” Martha said softly.

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