Scarlet
Sundays at our house had always smelled like rosemary potatoes and scrambled eggs.
It didn’t matter what chaos had stirred the week before—come Sunday morning, my mom and would be in their apron humming some retro tune from the 80s, my dad would be flipping pancakes with exaggerated flair, and I’d sit cross-legged at the table pretending life wasn’t the tangle of moon-magic and social ruin that it was.
This morning, the illusion almost worked.
“Pass me the cinnamon syrup?” Dad asked, flipping another pancake onto his plate.
I handed it to him, trying to smile, though my cheeks ached from doing it too often lately. I was wearing the soft flannel I always wore on Sundays, the one with a tear near the hem and tiny oil stains from helping Mom fix the porch light last year.
I lik
