Mrs. Reed moved with quiet efficiency, the kind that only came from years of making breakfast in the same kitchen. She cracked eggs into a bowl without comment, whisking them with just a flick of her wrist. The skillet was already hot, a pat of butter melting and hissing softly as she poured the mixture in.
Danielle sat at the counter, hands wrapped around her tea, still warm but slowly cooling. Christina was beside her, just close enough that their arms brushed when they moved. Neither of them spoke.
Mrs. Reed moved like she’d done this a thousand times—whisking eggs, chopping vegetables, heating the skillet—like there wasn’t a storm still echoing in the walls of the house. The sizzle of onions hitting hot oil filled the silence. Danielle sat stiffly at the counter, tea cupped in her ha
