MONICA

The doorbell rang once. Twice. Three times, insistent, sharp, cutting through the quiet afternoon.

Monica glanced at her son from the couch. Mark sat sprawled, eyes glued to his phone, thumbs scrolling, pretending he couldn’t hear a thing.

“Don’t you hear the doorbell?” she snapped, irritation flaring.

Mark sighed dramatically, unfolding his long legs and standing. “You could’ve answered it yourself,” he muttered under his breath.

Monica fixed his back with a glare, but before she could retort, a fit of coughing seized her—deep, rattling coughs that shook her frail frame. She pressed a tissue to her lips, turning away.

Mark yanked the door open with more force than...