The clicking of my apartment key echoed too loudly in the hallway as I pulled the door shut behind me. For a moment I stood still, waiting until the echo faded.
I had hoped to slip into my room unnoticed, quietly set my shoes aside, calm my heart. But light spilled from the kitchen – warm, bright, full of voices.
"You're late," my mother called. No accusation, just that unspoken question that always lay between her words.
I stepped into the room. Tom sat at the table, his bowl of cornflakes half empty, the milk already grayish-white. His soccer ball lay under the chair, dirty from practice. He grinned broadly, as if he'd been expecting me.
"Lina! I scored two goals!"
"Great." I forced a smile, ruffled his hair. My sweater was still cold from the evening air, and his hair smelled like grass.
My mother was chopping herbs. The scent of parsley and lemon hung in the air. She looked up, her apron tied crookedly, the ceiling light reflecting on the wet countertop.
