Forbidden

At seven each morning, the world belongs to her. Dawn stretches quietly over the narrow street below, washing the empty pavement in pale gold. A cool breeze drifts across the balcony and grazes her skin, lifting strands of long black hair from her shoulders. The birds begin before the city does; their scattered notes are the only sound brave enough to disturb the silence. Between her fingers rests the thin white line of a cigarette, steady and familiar, its smoke curling upward like a private ritual. A chipped porcelain cup of coffee warms her palm. She sits very still. The street remains deserted, the buildings hushed and gray in the early light. Sunrise always feels like a confession—tender, almost sacred—yet it unsettles her as much as it comforts her. There is something about beginnings that carries the weight of endings. At seven-thirty, she checks her watch with quiet precision. The second cigarette dies between her fingers. She crushes it out, rises, and slips back inside. In her room, she pulls on worn sneakers and gathers her hair into a careless knot, tying it with a practiced flick of her wrist. Her school bag waits on the bed, slouched and heavy with expectation. She swings it over her shoulder and hurries down the stairs two at a time. Her mother is waiting in the living room. Hannah watches her daughter with an expression that balances between exasperation and reluctant affection. She shakes her head slowly, as if mourning an aesthetic tragedy only she can see. “What did I do to deserve such a tomboy?” she murmurs under her breath. Isla pretends not to hear. Oversized shirts swallow her frame; loose jeans hide the shape of her body. To Hannah, it is a quiet rebellion against beauty itself. At thirty-three, Hannah moves through the world like it was designed for her—short skirts, high heels, lipstick applied with effortless precision. She wears elegance as naturally as breathing. Sometimes Isla catches herself studying her mother with a flicker of envy she never names aloud. “I’m leaving, Mom,” Isla says, pressing a firm kiss against Hannah’s cheek. Hannah laughs, warmth replacing reproach. “See you later, sweetie.” Their house is small but carefully kept, holding the fragile dignity of people who endure without complaint. Isla steps out into the growing heat of the morning and begins the twenty-minute walk to college. She prefers walking. It allows her to arrive unnoticed, to slip into rooms without drawing eyes. She hates attention. She hates being late even more. It is her third day of medical school. The word medical still feels too large inside her chest—like a promise she must struggle to keep. The classroom fills gradually, voices layering over one another in careless noise. She takes her usual seat in the corner. Solitude is easier than introductions. When the professor arrives fifteen minutes late, Isla has already mapped every crack in the peeling gray walls. The old paint curls at the edges like exhausted skin. A narrow window filters in a thin blade of light, insufficient and suffocating. She tries to focus on the biology lecture. But the room itself resists hope. This is not the college she dreamed of. It is simply the one she can afford. Since her father’s death three years ago, ambition has been measured in survival. Hannah works tirelessly, elegance intact even under strain. Isla waits tables after classes. The money never stretches far enough, yet neither of them speaks of sacrifice. They endured the grief together—two women learning how to stand upright in a house that once echoed with a man’s laughter. By late afternoon, exhaustion clings to Isla’s skin. Her shift ends, and she leaves campus under a merciless sun. Sweat dampens her collar; the pavement radiates heat through the soles of her shoes. At home, she heads straight for the shower, letting cold water rinse away the day’s weight. Dinner is leftover lasagna, reheated and eaten in front of the television. She watches a documentary about wild animals—creatures driven by instinct, untouched by expectation. Some would call her dull. She calls it peaceful. Since her father died, something inside her has grown quieter, sharper. Loneliness no longer frightens her; it fits. The front door opens unexpectedly. She startles, heart leaping, and finds Hannah stepping inside earlier than usual. “Mom? What are you doing home at this time?” Hannah avoids her eyes while closing the door. “I have an important dinner tonight. With colleagues. I need to get ready.” Isla nods, unconvinced but unwilling to pry. Suspicion flickers, then fades. She retreats to her room with a book, sinking into its pages until daylight slips away unnoticed. Night arrives too quickly. She dislikes the dark. It presses too heavily against memory. The silence after sunset feels different from the quiet of dawn—less forgiving. The sound of heels striking the hallway floor interrupts her thoughts. She steps out of her room and stops mid-breath. Hannah stands before her in a fitted black dress, fabric hugging every graceful line. The heels elongate her posture; her makeup glows softly under the lights. “Wow, Mom. You look amazing.” “Isla!” Hannah scolds lightly, though her smile betrays pleasure. She twirls once, the dress catching air. “I still don’t understand how you walk in those things,” Isla teases. “They look like architectural equipment.” Hannah laughs, then steps forward, resting warm hands on her daughter’s narrow shoulders. “You’re a woman, Isla. You should make an effort. You’re beautiful—more than you realize. But you hide it.” The words land like they always do. “Not again,” Isla replies, irritation sharpening her voice. “Nothing’s going to change.” Hannah sighs, a quiet surrender she never fully accepts. “I might be late tonight.” “I hope you have a good evening,” Isla says softly. Hannah kisses her daughter’s forehead, lingering just long enough for Isla to breathe in her perfume—a scent that feels like safety. When the door closes behind her mother, the house exhales into stillness. The next morning, at seven, the ritual repeats. Balcony. Breeze. Birds. Coffee. Cigarette. Since her father’s death, she has allowed herself this single indulgence each day, convincing herself it is controlled, contained. Smoke rises into the brightening sky, dissolving like thoughts she refuses to finish. “Isla, honey, come downstairs!” She extinguishes the cigarette before it’s done and joins her mother in the kitchen. “I have to leave early,” Hannah says. “I can drive you.” “I’d rather walk.” Hannah studies her daughter for a moment longer than usual, as if searching for something hidden beneath fabric and indifference. Then she pulls her into an embrace. “I love you.” “Me too.” By midday, the sun shows no mercy. Her shirt clings to her back; strands of hair stick to her neck. She considers cutting it—shedding weight the way trees shed leaves. But the thought passes. At the restaurant, the air is thick with heat and impatience. “Order number ten is ready!” the chef shouts. Isla moves automatically, lifting the plate, weaving between crowded tables. The small restaurant feels tighter each day, as though its walls inch inward. Customers speak over one another; dishes clatter; the scent of oil lingers in the air. She no longer remembers when she began to dislike it. But she carries on. Because she always does.