Daniel seemed intent on spending more time with her after his father’s death, and I admired that about him. A good son, a good father—what could be wrong with that?
At first, the routine felt normal. Saturdays meant I had a quiet house to myself for a few hours. I used the time to catch up on laundry, read a book, or sometimes just sip coffee without interruption. But then small things started to shift, almost too subtly to notice at first.
It began when Patricia stopped mentioning the visits. She and I usually spoke on the phone at least once a week, and she never failed to gush about the children—the silly things they said, the cookies they baked together, the flowers they planted. But when I casually asked one day if she was enjoying all that extra time with them, she hesitated.
