The woman in cream and gold didn’t flinch, just tilted her head like she was doing us a favor. “I’m a nutritionist,” she said, voice sugar-slick and sharp as glass. “Someone has to say it.” My mother’s hand fluttered toward her stomach, then dropped, guilty for existing. Before I could spit every furious word burning my tongue, the kitchen door slammed open. A man in a stained white jacket strode out, gaze locked on my mother like the room had emptied around her. “Molly?” he breathed, years collapsing into a single syllable. Her purse slipped from her fingers, lipstick and receipts scattering like tiny red and white ghosts. “Alaric?” she answered, and something in her voice cracked—a sound I’d never heard, like a door I hadn’t known was there swinging wide. As the restaurant held its breath, their past spilled between the tables: a greasy spoon on the edge of town, a broke college dropout scrubbing plates, my mother in a pink uniform shoving a spatula into his hand and daring him to dream bigg… Continues…