The woman standing outside my door at eleven o’clock at night was the last person I expected to see.

She was soaked from the rain, trembling slightly, and holding a suitcase that looked almost as exhausted as she did.

When I opened the door wider, she lifted her eyes to mine.

“Mark,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I have nowhere else to go.”

It took me three full seconds to remember how to speak.

Because the woman on my porch wasn’t a stranger.

She was Sarah Whitman.

My ex-girlfriend’s mother.

And judging by the two suitcases sitting in the rain behind her, something had gone terribly wrong.

“Sarah?”

She attempted a smile. “I realize this is probably the strangest thing that’s happened to you this year.”

“Actually, my neighbor recently tried to barbecue a washing machine. So you’re currently in second place.”

For the first time that night, the corner of her mouth moved.