The penthouse has been quiet for exactly three days.
Three days of peace. Three days of Sophie's normal chaos and Kevin's spreadsheets and Lucas's pink ears. Three days without family interrogations or wrong names or imaginary spoons. I've started to believe that maybe, just maybe, the universe is done throwing relatives at me.
I'm wrong.
Lucas receives the call during our morning coffee. His phone buzzes. He glances at the screen. And his face—his carefully controlled, perpetually neutral face—shows genuine surprise.
"Mother," he says, answering. "Is everything alright?"
Mother. Lucas has a mother. I know this intellectually. He's mentioned her once, briefly, when Elaine asked about his family. A retired schoolteacher. Widowed. Living somewhere outside the city. But knowing something intellectually and being confronted with its immediate reality are two very different things.
