The Father's Shadow Looms

The phone call came on a Tuesday, a day as ordinary as any other. The sky outside my window was a washed-out grey, the kind that promises rain but never quite delivers. I was sorting through a stack of mail, the mundane rhythm of it a familiar comfort, when my mother’s name flashed on the screen. Her voice, usually a steady hum, was tight with something I couldn’t quite place – a tremor of fear, perhaps, or a long-dormant unease.

“Mia? Are you sitting down?”

My hand stilled, the junk mail forgotten. “Mom? What is it?”