LYRA’S POV
Before I could even lift the first spoonful of rice to my mouth, the heavy deadbolt on the front door groaned. The lock turned with a harsh, metallic click that always meant the person on the other side didn't have the energy to be gentle.
My mother’s hand froze mid-air, her eyes instantly darting away from me and toward the entryway.
The door pushed open slowly, sticking against the swollen wooden frame before my father stepped inside. The moment his boots hit the linoleum, the air in the room changed. His broad shoulders, usually rigid with a quiet, stubborn pride, were sagging forward. His face was gray, a mask of deep, exhaustion-lined frustration, and his eyes were completely bloodshot from the coal dust and chemical fumes of the lower yard. He didn't even take his cap o
