“Can’t sleep,” she said, already climbing onto my bed like she owned it.
I raise an eyebrow. “A love letter? How old-fashioned.”
My mom looked at me, then at Emma. She sighed—that long, defeated, maternal sigh. “You’re both adults. We can’t stop you. But you have to understand: this changes everything. Family dinners. Holidays. What do we tell people?”
I take the bag. I take her hand.