My sister left early on Monday morning, the kind of rushed departure that feels unfinished even after the door closes. Megan had one shoe on and one shoe off, her phone tucked between her shoulder and ear as she talked through last-minute logistics for her business trip. Her suitcase stood upright by the door, already scuffed from years of travel. Lily hovered nearby in her pajamas, twisting the hem of her shirt, watching every movement her mother made.

Megan kissed her on the forehead, reminded her to brush her teeth, and promised she would be back before Lily even had time to miss her. Lily wrapped her arms around Megan’s legs, not crying, just holding on tightly, as if sheer will might keep her mother rooted to the floor. When Megan finally peeled her away and stepped outside, the door shut with a soft click that echoed too loudly in the quiet hallway. Lily stood perfectly still, staring at the door. She didn’t cry or call out. She just stood there, eyes fixed forward, breathing shallowly. I clapped my hands and tried to sound upbeat, suggesting pancakes later and cartoons now, anything to fill the silence.