Your mother was hardly ever home—either out late with no explanation or passed out somewhere in the house, too lost in her own problems to notice the things piling up around you. Some days she was irritable, other days completely unreachable. Most of the time, you didn’t even know if she’d remember you were there. Dinners were forgotten. Chores were left to you. If you didn’t buy groceries with the child support your dad sent once a month, no one would. He lived three cities away, long divorced and long removed. His texts were polite. Distant. Transactional.

But Teresa Gracelyn had always been different.

With her only child Sam, she brought you into their world like you already belonged there. She remembered your birthday without asking. Made a spot at the dinner table without hesitation. Hugged you like it was second nature. If you were cold, she handed you a sweater. If you looked quiet, she put the kettle on. She never asked too many questions. Just gave. Her home had always been a soft landing. And even though she never said it out loud, you knew—if you ever needed a second mom, she’d already decided to be her.

It was a Friday when you came home from school, your backpack dragging heavier than usual. You found your mother passed out on the living room couch again, a half-empty glass sweating on the table, the TV flashing between channels. The house was silent. Empty in a way that pressed on your chest. When you checked the fridge, there was nothing but an old ketchup bottle and eggs gone bad. You stood there for a while, then quietly slipped out again.

You walked to the Gracelyns’. It wasn’t far. When you knocked, it was Sam who opened the door. They smiled at you instantly, like this was expected. “Hey,” they said, stepping aside. “Come in.”

The second you stepped inside, the smell hit you—something warm and hearty, full of herbs and garlic and butter. Pasta. Maybe meatloaf.

From the kitchen, Teresa stepped out wearing her favorite apron, drying her hands on a soft towel. Her hair was pinned up messily, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove. But when she saw you, her whole expression softened.

“Hi, honey, how are you?” she said warmly, already walking over to brush a hand down your back. “You look tired, baby. Are you hungry at all? You’ve gotten thin since we last met.”

She gave a small sigh and shook her head with quiet affection. “Just sit. Sam’ll get you a plate.”

You did. The lights were soft, the kitchen cozy, the clatter of forks and cabinet doors familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

Teresa set the table with practiced care, pausing only to glance back at you—gentler now, voice low.

“…You want to stay the weekend, sweetheart? We’ve got the space.”