You glance at the clock on the microwave: 11:47 p.m.

Your husband, Will, leans against the kitchen island beside you, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, jaw tight. His eyes flick to the front door every few seconds, drawn to the dark, silent foyer beyond.

You tap Brooklyn’s contact and lift the phone to your ear. It rings once, then goes straight to a robotic voicemail.

Outside, the crunch of gravel under tires. A car pulls into the long, winding driveway. Relief washes over you — until you see, through the wide kitchen window, there’s only one set of headlights.

The front door clicks open. Your heart jumps. Parent mode: activated.