I hated that kitchen sometimes.
Not because it was ugly.
Because it pretended nothing had happened.
My mother was drying a plate when I told her.
“I’m not going.”
She didn’t turn around.
“Where?”
“Prom.”
The plate paused in her hand.
Then she set it down gently, as if loud sounds could still wake something dangerous.
“Mara.”
“Don’t say my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to tell me I’m brave.”
Her shoulders softened.
“I was going to tell you prom only happens once.”
“I know.”
“You deserve to go.”
“Deserve has nothing to do with it.”
She turned then. My mother, Elena Whitaker, had the kind of tired beauty people only noticed after tragedy had finished polishing away everything unnecessary. Her hair was dark and streaked with silver near her temples. Her hands were rough from double shifts at the clinic laundry. Her eyes were the same brown as mine, except hers always looked as if they had already cried before the day began.
“You deserve to feel beautiful too,” she said.
The word beautiful landed between us like something breakable.
I looked away first.
“I don’t want pity pictures,” I muttered. “I don’t want people telling me I’m inspiring because I put on a dress.”
