Claire sat beneath the weak yellow light wearing an old pink cardigan over a nursing tank top. Her dark hair was tangled, her lips were dry, and her eyes looked sunken from exhaustion.
The package of noodles was open on the table, its contents scattered across the scratched wood.
A glass of water stood beside her.
There was no broth.
No fruit.
No medicine.
No proper meal.
“Claire?”
Her head snapped up.
Claire believed them because she had no reason not to.
That morning, the truth had finally become clear.
Diane, Brooke, Jason, and Ben arrived with suitcases.
They packed food into coolers. They took toiletries from the bathroom, the warm quilt from the guest room, and the new shawl Ethan had bought for Claire’s birthday.
Brooke said the hotel might be cold at night.
When Claire protested, Diane placed the note on the refrigerator.
“You have noodles,” she said. “You’ll survive for a few days.”
“What about Lily?” Claire asked.
“You’re her mother,” Diane replied. “You need to learn how to manage.”
They left before ten in the morning.
Claire had attempted to prepare the noodles, but standing at the stove made her dizzy. The pot slipped from her hand, spilling the water.
She had been eating the noodles dry when Ethan walked in.
His phone vibrated.
Brooke had posted photographs on social media.
