The late afternoon sun stretched across the living room floor, painting everything in a golden hue. I sat on the edge of the couch, absentmindedly flipping through the mail — utility bills, pizza coupons, and a postcard from a car dealership offering a free oil change. Nothing that demanded urgency.
Then the doorbell rang.
I checked the clock. Serena always came around this time on Saturdays, part of our father-daughter ritual ever since she moved out after turning eighteen. I knew her knock, her bubbly voice echoing down the hallway, the way she kicked off her shoes and talked a mile a minute about her week.
