Maria:
I know something is wrong before my mother says anything.
It’s in the quiet. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that feels arranged, like someone has been waiting for you to walk into it.
I drop my bag by the console and slip off my heels, wincing a little as my feet hit the cold floor. Last night is still sitting in my body. Too many people, too many smiles, too much pretending everything was effortless.
“Mom?” I call.
“In here.”
Her voice comes from the dining room.
I walk in expecting the usual. Coffee. A comment about the gala. Something small and sharp disguised as advice.
Instead, she’s seated already, posture perfect, phone placed neatly in front of her like it belongs in the conversation.
Waiting.
That’s new.
“Good morning,” I say, pulling out a chair.
“Good morning
