The Guest Who Should Not Have Come
The room became painfully quiet.
My mother stood between Charles and me with flour still dusted across her fingers. The kitchen light was warm behind her, softening the lines on her face and making the whole apartment look almost gentle.
Charles’s gaze stayed on me.
He did not move towards me.
Perhaps he had finally learned that sudden closeness was not the same as sincerity.
Or perhaps he simply did not dare.
“Mia,” my mother said softly. “Don’t speak like that. Charles only came because he was worried about you.”
I looked at her.
She flinched before I said anything.
That, somehow, made me sadder.
“I told you he wouldn’t be here,” she continued quickly. “I really didn’t invite him. He came by himself. I was surprised too.”
“Were you?”
Her li
