LINDEN (Seven years old)
Burnt toast wafted through the air, then teased my nostrils before giving way to the citrusy smell of lemon soap.
The kitchen was warm, humming with the aroma of breakfast being made. Breakfast was different. I smelt toast, eggs, and bacon. My mother stood near the stove, her back at me, one hand gripping the edge of the sink, the other waving in dismissal of Arthur. She was talking to him in the low, delicate voice she used for Willow.
Arthur stood still, arms crossed and facing me. He was silent. His face was unreadable as my mother spoke to him.
“You think I don't see it, Sam?” She asked, her voice low and even, using the name she alone used for Arthur. “You’re cheating on me,” she whispered, voice cracking like ice on heavy stone “Again.”
Arthur didn't sa
