The morning did not start wrong.
It just did not start right either.
The house was already awake when I came into the kitchen. The kettle had not been boiled. The radio was not on. My mother stood by the counter, scrolling through her phone with one hand, the other resting flat against the surface.
I reached for a bowl.
It slipped before I realized I had not held it properly.
The sound was sharp. Too loud for how early it was.
The bowl shattered.
Milk spread across the tiles. Cereal scattered everywhere.
"I'm sorry," I said immediately, crouching down. "I'll clean it."
My mother turned fully this time.
"Again?" she said.
I froze.
"I have told you so many times about that shelf. Why do you never slow down?"
"I did not mean to."
"You never mean to," she replied. "But it keeps happening."
The words pressed heavier than the bowl had.
"Last month it was the plate. Before that it was the mug. Do you remember that? Or do you just forget?"
My throat tightened.
Jace hovered in the doorway. Aisling pulled him back gently.
"I said I'm sorry," I murmured.
"That is not the point," she said. "It is always something."
The kitchen felt smaller.
I nodded.
"I'll clean it."
She did not respond.
And I did not say anything else.
I cleaned the floor slowly. Carefully. Like I could undo it if I moved correctly enough. My hands still shook.
"You are going to be late," she added.
"I'm ready."
She hummed, like she did not quite believe me.
The notice sat folded in my bag. PTA Meeting. Bold letters. Underlined twice by the school. I could feel it there, pressing against my side.
I waited for her to mention it.
She did not.
I thought about saying it.
The words rose to my throat.
There is a meeting today.
It would not have taken much.
But I was still standing in the space of the broken bowl. Still feeling the weight of again. Of always.
I rinsed the floor, wiped the counter, placed the cloth back where it belonged. I checked once. Then again.
"Do you need anything?" I asked quietly.
She did not look at me.
"No."
I stepped back.
Silence slid into place.
We left together.
The four of us walked down the path, school bags knocking lightly against our backs. Jace talked the whole way. Aisling corrected him without looking up from her phone. Liam walked ahead, already separate.
Halfway down the road, I slowed.
I looked back at the house.
The urge came suddenly. Sharp. Urgent. To turn around. To run back inside. To say it clearly so she would not be able to say later that she did not know.
Even though she knew.
Aisling's notice had been on the fridge all week. Jace had mentioned it twice at dinner.
Still, my feet hesitated.
"What are you doing?" Aisling called.
"Nothing."
I caught up.
At the bus stop, I stood a little apart, bag clutched to my chest. When the bus arrived, I took my usual seat by the window.
As it pulled away, I pressed my forehead lightly against the glass.
I told myself she would remember.
I told myself she would come.
I told myself that if she did not, it would not be because I had not reminded her.
By the time the school came into view, my chest already felt tight.
I wondered when it became my job to make sure she could not blame me.