⸻
Jane stopped.
Mid-step. Her hand was already on the doorknob, her fingers wrapped around the cool metal—but something made her pause. The weight of their words hung heavy in the air, and she couldn’t leave without one final word.
Her grip on her mother’s hand tightened—firm, reassuring—then she turned back.
Slowly. Her movements deliberate, each step measured as she faced the table once more. The fire in her eyes hadn’t faded, but now it was focused, controlled.
“And none of you will eat either,” she said, her voice cutting through the room like a blade, sharp and clean. “This food was made with love—love you don’t deserve.”
She gestured to the spread on the table—her mother’s signature chicken curry, homemade roti, fresh chutneys, all carefully prepared over hours.
The table fell
