The easy rhythm of post-dinner conversation eventually wound down. My father, stifling a yawn he tried to hide behind a courteous hand, was the first signal. “It is getting late,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “You have a long drive back to the city.”
It was a gentle dismissal, but a dismissal nonetheless. The evening, with its seismic highs and lows, was officially over.
My mother sprang into action. “I’ll pack you some leftovers! The fish is still good for tomorrow’s lunch.” She bustled toward the kitchen, then stopped, turning to me with a pointed look. “Maya-ah, come help me find the right containers.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a summons.
I followed her into the kitchen, the warm, familiar space now holding the ghostly echo of shattered crystal and discarded flowers. She moved
