Lena
The kitchen was a pressure cooker today. Steam from the oversized pot of soup on the stove made the windows sweat, blurring the world outside into a smear of grey and yellow. Mama was moving between the counter and the fridge, her hip bumping into the table every time she turned. The house felt like it had shrunk three sizes overnight.
"Move the bills, Lena," Mama grunted, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of a floury hand. "I need space for the bread."
"There is no space, Mama," I muttered, stacking the electric notices on top of the toaster. Everything was too close. The smell of burnt fat from the morning’s bacon was still clinging to the curtains, thick and heavy.
Then, the floorboards on the porch groaned.
I didn't need to look. I knew that heavy, deliberate step. The
