The call came on a gray afternoon that smelled like rain. “Mom?” Lisa’s voice was shaking. “We’re at County General. The kids—fever, vomiting, in and out. I don’t know what to do.”
Helen’s coat was on before the sentence ended. “I’m coming,” she said, already locking the door behind her. The ache of being needed returned—scary, familiar, impossible to ignore.
Some doors you walk through because love refuses to let you stand still on the threshold.
