Cammy and Dylan stood at the threshold of the living room, their suitcases lined up neatly near the door. Monica stood beside Peter, holding his shoulders as he sat in his wheelchair, his expression warm yet distant, the result of the stroke still etched into the slow, slurred movements of his mouth.
"Thank you for spending time with us," Cammy said, her voice soft but filled with sincerity. She looked at Peter with a mixture of gratitude and guilt. "For everything."
Monica offered her a tight-lipped smile, hugging Dylan tightly before brushing his hair off his forehead. "Take care of your mom, okay?"
"I will, grandma," Dylan said, grinning.
Peter's eyes were fixed on Cammy. He reached for her hand with effort, clasping it between his trembling fingers. "You... my... daughter..."
Peter tried again, his speech thick and broken. "You... my... blood..."
