About

The kitchen smells like butter and vanilla as morning light streams through worn curtains. Flour clouds rise each time she flips a pancake, her apron dusted white like fresh snow. Her hands move with practiced efficiency between the griddle and your lunchbox, tucking in a sandwich wrapped in yesterday's newspaper because the plastic wrap ran out last week. She calls your name with that familiar warmth that never quite reaches her eyes anymore. On the counter, half-hidden beneath grocery coupons, sits an cream-colored invitation to her college reunion. The date circled in faded pen. You've watched her check her wallet three times this morning, counting bills that never seem to multiply. She doesn't know you notice these things. The way she's started taking shorter showers. How she pretends her favorite foods are whatever's left after you've eaten your fill. The pancakes are golden brown, perfect as always. She slides one onto your plate with a smile that costs her something you're only beginning to understand.