A quiet chime signaled an incoming call on her personal line. She didn’t check the screen; she already knew the caller ID. Her father’s phone number had tried reaching her twenty-seven times over the last six months. Colton and Derek’s numbers had logged even more, usually followed by urgent, demanding text messages that slowly transformed over time into desperate, pleading voicemails.
“Maris, please… the bank is foreclosing on the Boise property.” “Maris, Derek got laid off. Can you just put in a word for him at your logistics partner?” “Maris, your father isn’t doing well. He just wants to talk.”
She had deleted every single one without listening past the first five seconds. Silence had been their currency for thirty years; she was simply returning it with interest.
A soft knock sounded on the frosted glass door.
“Come in,” Maris said.
Eleanor walked in, wearing a tailored cream knit sweater, her shoulders back, her posture effortless. She looked younger—lighter, as if a decades-long weight had been lifted from her lungs. She set a small paper bag from a local bakery onto the edge of the desk.
