The kitchen was a furnace. Steam from the boiling starch on the stove clung to the peeling wallpaper, making the small space feel like it was breathing. Everything was too close—the stack of unwashed plates, the hum of the old refrigerator, the weight of the night pressing against the windowpane.
Mama stood by the sink, her movements slow, heavy with the kind of fatigue that doesn't wash off. She smelled of peppermint tea and the antiseptic from her latest check-up.
"You’re vibrating, Lena," she said, not looking up. "I can hear your heart hitting your ribs from here."
"I’m just tired, Mama. The shop was a mess today." I gripped the edge of the laminate counter. The matte-black card in my pocket felt like a hot coal against my thigh.
Mama stepped closer. Her eyes, usually clouded, were
