Emma’s car pulled into the driveway at 7:42 on Friday evening.

I watched from the guest room window as she stepped out, backpack over one shoulder, smiling the same easy smile she had always worn. Daniel went out to meet her. From upstairs I could hear their voices — her laughter, his lower replies — and the sound made the guilt in my chest feel sharp enough to cut.

When I came downstairs she hugged me hard.

“You look different,” she said, pulling back to study my face. “More rested. Dad’s cooking must be better than I remembered.”

Daniel stood a few feet away, expression carefully neutral. Our eyes met...