SCARLETT
Morning arrived grey and reluctant.
I heard mom before I saw her. The quiet deliberate sounds of someone moving through the house with more care than usual, like she was being thoughtful about where she put her feet. The kettle. The soft clink of a cup. The sitting room door opening and closing.
I lay in bed for longer than I should have.
Getting up meant facing the day and the day meant facing whatever version of my mother had woken up on the other side of last night's conversation. The composed version who had sat on my bed and said *not tonight.* Or a different version. One that had slept on things and arrived at the specific questions I didn't know how to answer.
I got up at eight.
Mom was in the sitting room with her tea and her phone, feet tucked beneath her on the cou
