Saturday afternoon sunlight slanted low across the pavement as Esther walked home from the grocery shop.
The plastic bags cut soft lines into her palms: vegetables, rice, spices, and a small carton of juice the twins had asked for.
She’d taken the bus across town, waited in two long queues, and carried everything back alone. By the time she locked the front door behind her, her shoulders ached and her feet felt heavy.
She set the bags on the kitchen table, rested her forehead against the cool edge for a moment, and breathed slowly. Saturdays were always like this: quiet, slow, and full of things she could not say out loud.
Esther lit the stove, set the pot of water to boil, and chopped onions and carrots with steady, automatic hands.
While the food simmered, she wiped down the coun
