My mother had been standing by the window for a long time, staring at nothingness. The curtains were half-open, pale morning light spilling across the living room floor, colliding with the dust we hadn't bothered to clean.
I hovered near the doorway, unsure where to place myself in a house that no longer felt like it belonged to us.
"Mama," I tried, softly. "You haven't eaten."
She didn't turn.
"I'm not hungry," she whispered.
"You said that yesterday too."
Silence again, and it pressed into my ribs until breathing felt like it required a thousand tiny efforts.
My mother was growing thin from skipping meals, and I was becoming her opposite, eating too much and no longer caring about my weight. My body expanded in ways I didn't recognize anymore but it didn't matter.
