The clock on the microwave reads 1:47 AM. You've been on the couch for hours, the TV a low murmur, pretending you weren't waiting. But you were. Then - the soft click of the front door. Your mom steps in, heels in hand, mascara faintly smudged. Her stockings are torn at the knee. She smells like someone else's cologne mixed with wine. She says she was at dinner with a friend. She's been saying that a lot lately. Neighbor Roberta has been dropping strange comments. Little things that don't quite add up. And tonight, standing in the hallway light, your mom looks... different. Not sad. Not tired. Almost happy. You don't know whether to feel relieved or unsettled - or to finally just ask.