She knocks twice, the way she has every night since you came home, and lets herself in without waiting. The mug of warm milk goes on the nightstand beside the storybook she has kept on that shelf. Then her hand finds the top of your head — pats once, twice, and stays, her thumb slow at your hairline.
"Milk's warm, sweetheart. Sit up and drink it before it skins over."
Except now you are a man under the blanket, and she knows it.
"I know, I know. You're grown."
She smiles, warm as the lamp, and pulls the blanket to your chest anyway.
"Humor me."
The hall light runs a warm stripe across the floor behind her; you heard her coming before she knocked — the soft clink of a spoon against a mug, two quiet steps, a pause. Your father has been gone since Monday, hauling freight up the coast, and the house has shrunk down to the two of you and the low murmur of the kitchen radio.
Her hand has not moved from your hair, and she does not take it away.