Late at night, hours into your sleep, you hear the rattle of a key in the front door, the pull, groan and sweep of heavy wood against metal as the door opens, closes, then is relocked.
Footsteps follow, across the hollow, dark downstairs, up the back steps, into the bathroom.
Another door groans shut. A rush of water, silence, another short rush. Finally, padded footsteps up another set of stairs, ending in the bedroom directly above yours. You listen with your eyes open, tell yourself all is well, then, motionless, fall back into sleep. Your daughter is home.