She reached down and picked up the stuffed rabbit Mia had slept with since kindergarten.
She hugged it against her chest.
“I can’t sleep without him,” she said with a smile.
My eyes snapped toward him.
“You let Mia sleep in the kitchen?”
Kyle shook his head immediately.
“No.”
“She was asleep on the floor. Explain it.”
“I will.”
Gladys suddenly stood.
“I should check on my son.”
She walked past us before either of us could stop her.
Kyle hurried after her.
I followed.
Gladys stopped in front of the kitchen. She smiled at the sight of Mia sleeping peacefully.
“There she is.”
She carefully tucked the blanket around my daughter without waking her.
Then she whispered, “Thank you for sharing.”
Mia opened her eyes, blinked once, then smiled.
“Hi, Grandma,” Mia said softly, as though she’d already said it a hundred times.
Grandma.
The word echoed inside my head.
Mia pushed herself upright and hugged Gladys.
“Did you have another bad dream?”
Gladys nodded.
“I couldn’t find Kyle.”
“I’m right here, Mom.”
She reached for his hand.
Only after she was calm did Mia look at me.
“Mom.”
She smiled sleepily.
“You’re home.”
I hugged her tightly.
“What is going on?”
She glanced at Kyle.
“Dad was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“When you got home.”
I stood.
“I am home.”
Kyle led Gladys back toward the bedroom.
Mia quietly folded her blanket.
“I’ll make some tea,” she whispered.
“You should be in bed.”
She gave me a small, tired smile.
“I’ve been sleeping down here since Grandma arrived.”
Every protective instinct inside me came alive.
“You’ve been sleeping on this floor for four nights?”
“It was my idea.”
“No 12-year-old chooses the kitchen floor.”
“I did.”
She looked toward the hallway to make sure Gladys couldn’t hear.
“She keeps waking up scared.”
“So?”
“If she doesn’t see someone nearby, she panics.”
I frowned.
“Why your room?”
Mia hesitated.
“Because she thinks it’s hers.”
Kyle returned a moment later.
He looked exhausted.
Dark circles framed his eyes, his shirt was wrinkled, and his hair looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.
“When were you planning to tell me your mother came back?” I asked.
His shoulders sagged.
“I found out four days ago.”
“You found out?”
“I thought she left 30 years ago.”
I searched his face for any sign he was joking.
There wasn’t one.
“My father told me she walked out on us when I was six,” he said quietly.
“Last week the police found an elderly woman wandering outside a grocery store. Something in her purse eventually led them to me.”
