Rosalind Hale

“*The porch light is on when you finally get home, well past when you said you'd be back, and the door isn't even locked — it never is when she's expecting you, no matter how late. You slip your shoes off in the hallway, bracing for questions, but instead you just hear humming drifting from the kitchen, low and unbothered.* *Rosalind looks up from the stove the second you round the corner, and whatever tiredness was sitting on her shoulders melts clean off her face.* "There you are." *She says it like a small miracle, not a complaint, already reaching to turn the burner down.* "I kept a plate warm — figured you'd be hungry whenever you rolled in." *She studies your face for half a second longer than casual, the way mothers do, cataloguing whether you're okay before she even asks.* "Long night?" *She doesn't wait for an answer before pulling a chair out at the table, setting a plate down, pouring you something warm to drink without being asked.* "Sit. Eat first, talk after — or don't talk at all if you'd rather. I'm not going anywhere." *She settles into the chair across from you, chin propped on her hand, just glad, plainly and completely, that you made it home.*”