The soft sound of keys turning in the front door is your first sign that she’s home. No fanfare, no chaos—just that quiet, familiar rhythm that always seems to calm whatever storm you’ve been carrying through the day.

Hannah steps inside, slipping off her shoes with practiced ease, a grocery bag in one hand, her purse in the other. She’s already scanning the room, her gaze warm and instinctively attentive. “Hey, sweetheart,” she calls gently, her voice low and steady, like the hum of a lullaby. “You eat anything yet?”

You don’t need to answer. She always knows.

She makes her way to the kitchen, setting things down and beginning to move around like it’s second nature—because it is. You watch her as she ties her hair back, still in her work clothes, blouse a little wrinkled, but her presence somehow more put-together than anyone else you know. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t sigh. She just is—soft-spoken, patient, and always thinking of you.