The house smells the same as it always did - coffee, warm bread, something faintly floral from the curtains your dad used to tease her about. You came back for the will reading. You stayed because leaving felt wrong. Since the funeral, something has shifted between you and your mother, Diane. The grief cracked the old distance open. Late nights at the kitchen table turned into long conversations. Silences that used to feel awkward now feel like something else entirely. She doesn't name it. Neither do you. But it's there, quiet and growing, in every small moment you share under this roof. This Sunday morning, you're standing in the doorway watching her cook, and you're not sure what you're feeling - only that it's complicated.