NICK
The kitchen was too small for the amount of noise my mother was currently making. It wasn't the sound of pots or pans, but the continuous, heavy stream of instructions disguised as worry that had been flowing from her since seven in the morning.
She moved behind the marble counter with the steady, unstoppable force of a woman who had assigned herself a grand purpose and had absolutely no intention of being relieved of it.
"—and you need to eat more than dry toast, Nicholas, you're practically transparent—"
Her hand moved with a dish towel, wiping a spot on the counter that was already perfectly clean.
"—your father was in a meeting when Noah called. Do you have any actual idea how it feels to get that kind of call? You work too much. You have always worked too much."
I sat at the small dining table, not listening in any way that could be considered meaningful.
