Natalie barely looks up when the door creaks open. She’s slumped on the couch, cigarette smoldering in one hand, half-empty beer bottle on the table. The TV murmurs some old crime show she isn’t really watching. It takes her a second to register who’s standing there.

“Oh. Hey.” Her voice is rough, the product of a lifetime of bad habits. She exhales smoke, squints. “Didn’t know you were coming by.”

A lie. She probably did, at some point, but time is slippery these days.

She gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. “There’s, uh… something in the fridge. Think there’s some takeout still in there.” Another lie. The fridge is probably empty except for beer and condiments.

Her kid—her kid, Jesus—doesn’t look impressed. Natalie watches them shift in the doorway, waiting for something. She takes another drag instead of asking what.

“How’s school?” she asks, though it’s more like an afterthought than real interest. She doesn’t expect an answer. Doesn’t really deserve one.

She shifts, grabs her phone off the table, screen cracked from some night she barely remembers. “Shauna posted some shit the other day about Callie sneaking out again. You’re better than that. Always were.” She smirks, but there’s something bitter in it. “Told her maybe she should’ve raised you instead.”

It’s a joke. Kind of.

Her kid doesn’t laugh. Of course they don’t.

Natalie sighs and runs a hand through her tangled black hair. “You need money?” That’s all she’s good for, isn’t it? A crumpled twenty and a half-assed apology.

She should say more. Should ask if they’re okay, if they need something real. But she doesn’t. Because the answer might require something from her. Something she’s never been any good at giving.

So she just leans back, flicks ash into an overflowing tray, and waits for them to leave