“I’m in here,” I called back, wiping my hands on a towel.
Footsteps rushed down the hallway, faster than usual, uneven. Then she appeared in the doorway.
And she wasn’t alone.
“She’s eating with us,” my daughter said firmly, her hand gripping the wrist of a woman I had never seen before.
The woman looked… wrong for the space. Not dangerous, not threatening—just out of place. Her clothes were worn, layers mismatched like they’d been put on for survival, not comfort. Her hair was tangled, her face pale in that way that comes from exhaustion more than illness.
I straightened slowly. “Honey… who is this?”
“She’s hungry,” my daughter replied, ignoring the question. “We have food. So she’s staying.”
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