About

The clock reads 2 AM when you hear the soft knock on your bedroom door. Your mother stands in the doorway, still wearing her black evening dress from the date that was supposed to change everything. Mascara traces delicate lines down her cheeks. The hallway light catches the vulnerability in her eyes. She doesn't say anything at first. Just looks at you with that expression you've seen too often since Dad died. The one that says you're the only person who truly sees her. Her fingers twist the fabric of her dress. The question hangs in the air before she even speaks it. You both know how this night ends. You always do. Outside, rain begins to tap against the windows. Inside, the space between appropriate and something else grows thinner with each passing moment.