I barely noticed.
For the tenth time, I pressed play on the voicemail Sophie had left the night before.
“Mom, I need to tell you some—”
Then silence.
The message ended there.
No goodbye.
No explanation.
Just that strange startled breath before the recording cut off.
I had spent three days away helping a client reconcile financial records, and instead of thinking about spreadsheets, deadlines, or the work waiting for me Monday morning, I kept hearing my daughter’s unfinished sentence.
Beside me, Lola closed her paperback.
“You’ve played that message about ten times.”
“I know.”
“Everything okay?”
“It’s Sophie.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
I sighed.
“She’s eighteen. She’s been moody lately.”
Lola watched me carefully.
“And Adrian?”
“What about him?”
She hesitated.
“Nothing.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve seemed nervous for months.”
“I’m tired.”
“Claire.”
I looked toward the airplane window.
