Lena
The kitchen was a humid, airless box. Steam from a pot of boiling starch turned the floral wallpaper into a damp, peeling mess. I pushed my way past the back of Mama’s chair, my hip catching the edge of the overcrowded table.
"Careful, Lena! You’ll knock the salt into the sink," Mama grunted. She was squinting at a stack of crumpled papers—past-due notices, medical receipts, the usual debris of a month with no profit.
"The table is too small, Mama. This house is too small," I snapped, wiping sweat from my forehead. The smell of burnt fat from the diner next door was drifting through the screen, heavy and inescapable.
"It’s not the house that’s the problem," she muttered. She paused, her fingers hovering over a bright blue envelope. "Lena... look at this."
"I don't want to see mor
