Every Sunday my mom hosted dinner, rain or shine. Ever since Dad passed away three years ago, those evenings had become the one tradition that kept our family stitched together. No matter how busy life became, we gathered around her table for roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and stories Dad would have laughed at. So when my phone buzzed that Sunday morning with a short message—”Please don’t come today.”—I knew something was terribly wrong. Mom had never canceled dinner. Not once. I called immediately, but she didn’t answer. My brother Brian had received the same text, and within twenty minutes we were both pulling into her driveway. The porch light was still on even though the sun hadn’t set, and her car sat in its usual spot. We knocked. Nothing. After another unanswered call, I used my spare key.
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