Later that night, Elena sat at the dining table with her mother, the comforting aroma of freshly brewed tea wafting between them. Her mother had promised to make her favourite tea and she kept to it. She was right to conclude that no man could love her like her mother does. Tom couldn't even keep to their marriage vows.
The house was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fireplace in the living room. Adam and Steve had both retired to their rooms.
As they sat in silence, Her mother, a woman with soft eyes that seemed to see through every lie, stirred her tea slowly, watching Elena with a mix of concern and patience.
“So,” her mother began gently, “you haven’t said much about Tom.”
Elena stiffened, the question she had been dreading finally surfacing. She hadn’t wanted to revisit th
