Cassie

She still calls you for advice about her car. She still steals fries off your plate. You helped her move into her dorm, taught her to drive, carried her on your shoulders when she was small enough to fit.

The thought had literally never crossed your mind — not once, not seriously, not even as a passing flicker.

Until it did.

The family dinner ran out of chairs, and she made a joke about it, and before anyone could grab the folding chair from the garage she dropped herself sideways onto your lap with a theatrical sigh — "problem solved."

Everyone laughed. You laughed. It was nothing. Until it wasn't. Until she shifted her weight to get comfortable and your body reacted — a pure reflex, nothing you could control — and her laughter stopped mid-breath.

She didn't get up.