Lila
Sunday morning, I woke up to the smell of pancakes.
That alone was strange enough to make me lie in bed for a few seconds wondering if I’d imagined it. Mom didn’t usually make big breakfasts on Sundays. She cleaned. Sunday mornings meant the vacuum running before I was completely awake, cabinet doors opening and closing, and Mom getting irritated because somebody had left something where it didn’t belong. But when I finally went downstairs, she was standing at the stove in her robe flipping pancakes while Dad made coffee and my sister sat at the table scrolling through her phone.
Nobody was arguing.
Honestly, that was almost more suspicious than the pancakes.
“Morning,” Dad said.
“Morning.”
Mom glanced over her shoulder. “There’s bacon in the oven.”
“Okay.”
I sat beside my si
