After dinner, Mom claimed she had a headache and excused herself almost immediately, retreating into her room with a forced calmness that didn't fool me. The way she pressed her fingers to her temples and avoided my gaze—yeah, that wasn't just physical pain.
Guilt was gnawing at her. I could see it written across her face, behind her tired eyes. Her dreams—no, her desires—were becoming too much for her to bury anymore. And they were about me.
It was almost admirable, in a twisted way, how she'd kept herself together all these years. Always composed, always restrained, even when life kept pushing her closer to the edge of some emotional cliff she never let herself fall from.
I lay on my bed staring up at the ceiling, arms folded comfortably behind my head. A faint smile played across my lips.
