Back at their house, the laundry mountain awaited. I folded the tiny shirts and matched the socks with a practiced, robotic ease before moving to the kitchen to prep a roast. But beneath the scent of searing meat and rosemary, the plot was thickening.
The next morning, the “Morning Blur” was in full effect. Marcus and Sarah were ghosts in expensive suits, rushing past the breakfast table with whispered apologies and eyes glued to their phones. They didn’t see the sticky juice spill I wiped up; they didn’t see the way Maya’s hair needed brushing. I was just the background music to their frantic race against the clock.
