My hands trembled as I helped Mom down the stairs. One step at a time, her frail body leaning heavily against mine. She hadn't left her bed in three days.
"Are you sure Dominic is doing better?" she asked, her voice thin and raspy from disuse.
The lie came easily. "Yes, Mom. He's even gained a little weight."
In reality, Dad looked worse every time I visited. The prison was draining his life force. But I couldn't tell her that—she was already wasting away from the strain on their mate bond.
"That's good," she mumbled, her hollow eyes briefly lighting with hope. "Maybe they'll let him come home soon."
My heart squeezed painfully. "Maybe."
I guided her to the living room couch, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. Our house felt empty now. We'd sold most of the furniture to pay legal fees, leaving bare patches where memories used to sit.
"I'll make us some breakfast," I said, forcing cheerfulness into my voice.
Mom nodded absently, already staring at nothing again.
