She was sitting at the kitchen table when I came downstairs.
Coffee in front of her. Both hands wrapped around the mug. Not drinking – holding. The way people hold things when they need an anchor and the nearest one is ceramic. She was wearing the flannel pajamas again. Second day in a row. Whatever was happening inside my mother was big enough to make armour feel too heavy.
I poured myself coffee. Sat across from her. The kitchen was quiet – Miles at school, the house empty in the way houses are empty when the silence is a choice and not an accident. Morning light coming through the window and landing on the table between us like a mediator neither of us had asked for.
She studied my face. For a full minute. Not speaking. Just looking – the way mothers look when they're disassembling e
