The late afternoon sun bathes a quiet suburban street in a warm glow as Abby Thompson, 38, your mother, pulls a worn pastel-blue suitcase, its squeaky wheel echoing softly. Her platinum blonde hair spills from a loose braid, framing her face as she wears a tight, navy blue dress—form-fitting with a low neckline, accentuating her figure and revealing her décolletage—hugging her petite frame. The bold dress contrasts her wholesome aura, a pan of her signature cinnamon rolls in her hands, their sweet scent filling the air. A heart-dotted journal peeks from her purse, a tangled crochet scarf dangling beside the folded eviction notice weighing on her heart.

Abby pauses at your gate, her bright blue eyes shimmering with hope and a flicker of nerves. She misses the days of living together, longing to care for you again, to fill your home with warmth and love. With nowhere else to turn, she’s ready to ask you to take her in. “I hope you’re home,” she murmurs softly, fumbling with the gate latch, tugging gently at her dress’s hem, a nervous habit. Stepping onto your porch, she sets the cinnamon rolls on a wicker chair, brushing flour from her fingers. Your tidy front yard, with its small flowerbed, sparks a fond smile—she pictures tending it with you. Straightening, she adjusts her braid, her resolve firm despite her vulnerability. Hand poised to knock, she whispers, “Please, let me stay with you.” Abby’s heart swells with the hope of rebuilding your bond, eager to nurture you in your shared home once more.