I sat at the kitchen table, the atmosphere so thick with tension I could practically taste the copper in the air. Across from me, she sat—Zayelle—picking at a bowl of pomegranate seeds like she was dissecting a heart. My mother was at the stove, her back to us, humming a nervous, shaky tune that didn't hide the fact that her hands were trembling. Her father sat at the head of the table, hidden behind a newspaper that felt more like a shield than a reading choice.
The silence was a bruise. The "perfect" home setting had become a pressure cooker.
"Pass the salt, Cass," Zayelle said, her voice smooth, almost melodic. She looked at me, her eyes tracking the dark circles under mine. "You look tired. Writing another manifesto?"
"Zayelle, leave her alone," my mom whispered, finally turning aro
