David Ashworth rounded the corner into the sunroom, still in his travel coat, having intended to simply check briefly on the household before heading upstairs to inspect the nursery construction. What he found instead stopped him completely in the doorway — Rosa kneeling on the floor, visibly in distress, juice soaked through her apron, tears streaming down her face, while his mother sat calmly in her armchair, entirely unbothered by the scene in front of her.
"What happened here?" His voice came out sharp with alarm, crossing the remaining distance in several quick strides, dropping immediately to a crouch beside Rosa.
Constance looked up from her magazine with mild irritation at the interruption. "The juice wasn't prepared correctly. I asked her to make another—"
David didn't wait for his mother to finish. His full attention had shifted entirely to Rosa, whose breathing had grown shallow and uneven, her hand still pressed hard against her stomach.
"Rosa," he said gently, his voice carrying an urgency that cut cleanly through his mother's continued indifference. "Look at me. What's wrong?"