She and Rachel developed a fragile schedule of politeness. They were not friends. They were cohabitants under a treaty written in grief. Rachel cooked on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Laura reclaimed Wednesdays and weekends. Daniel took Saturdays and looked grateful for any assignment that made him useful rather than guilty.
One night, a week after her return, Laura found Rachel alone on the back deck, cardigan wrapped tight against the Maryland chill, baby monitor glowing on the railing. The yard stretched toward a fence lined with maples turning early. Rachel did not startle when the door opened.
"Couldn't sleep?" Rachel asked.
"Jet lag of the soul," Laura said, and almost smiled.
They stood without speaking for a time. A plane blinked across the sky, heading somewhere indifferent.
"Mara wanted a sisterhood that included you," Rachel said finally. "She liked you. She said you were the kind of person who showed up. She didn't know how right she was about showing up—just for the wrong death."
Laura's throat tightened. "I barely knew her."
"She still counted you. People do that. They invent a version of you that helps them feel their friendships are wider than they are. Chris did it with Daniel. Whole mythologies." Rachel rubbed her arms. "I need you to know I have an end date in my head. Not court-ordered. Mine. Spring, maybe. If I can get a two-bedroom. If the guardianship stays with Daniel and I remain the aunt who visits, not the woman who lives in your guest room. I don't want to be the ghost in your marriage."