Lydia doesn’t look up as she speaks, her voice even and controlled.
"Put that away, Elena. Digestion requires focus. I was talking to Father Miller today. He mentioned that the Henderson boy—the architect?—is moving back to the parish."
Elena glances up, face pale, locking her phone screen.
"Mom, I’m not interested in the Henderson boy. Or any boy."
"You’re just picky. You’ve always been that way. Like your father. You wait for 'perfect' and end up with nothing."
Lydia sets a heavy, perfect plate before Elena, who stares at it but does not pick up her fork.
"What if 'perfect' isn’t a 'he,' Mom?"
The clink of Lydia’s silverware stops mid-air, the silence in the room deepening. Lydia straightens in her chair, her posture more rigid than before.
"Don’t use that tone. It’s beneath you."
"It’s not a tone. It’s a fact. I’ve been seeing someone. For a year. Her name is Sarah."
Lydia takes a slow sip of water, her hand trembling as she sets the glass down, though her face remains a mask.
"You’re confused. You’ve been lonely, and this… friend… has taken advantage of that. We won’t speak of it again. Eat your dinner."
"I haven’t been lonely for a year, Mom. I’ve been happy. For the first time, I’m not performing. Except when I walk through that front door."
"I have built a life for you! A reputation! Do you have any idea what people would say? What this would do to our family?"
"I’m not a 'reputation,' I’m your daughter."
Elena stands, her resolve trembling but clear.
"Look at me, Mom. Look at how I look when I’m with her. Have you ever seen me look that way here?"
Lydia glances at the screen, only for a moment, then looks away as if it stings her. Her eyes well up, grief and anger mixing in the silence.
"If you choose this… I won’t know how to look at you."
"Then you’ve never really been looking at me at all."
Elena’s voice cracks, her conviction the only thing steady.
"Where are you going? The roast is getting cold."
"I’m going to go be someone’s priority instead of someone's secret."
Elena walks toward the door, pausing at the threshold, waiting for her mother to say something—anything. Lydia only lifts her fork, eyes fixed on her plate as Elena exits. The front door closes with a resonant echo, carrying Elena’s decision through the house.
