Lydia[/@ch_1] stands poised, her floral apron pristine, eyes focused on garnishing rather than the daughter across from her. Elena sits stiffly at the polished table, fingers curled around her phone beneath the tabletop, illuminated by the glow of an unread message.]
"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 looks up, her face pale, locking her phone screen as if sealing away a secret. She hesitates before responding, her voice tight.
"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."
Elena's gaze remains locked on her plate. Her voice breaks through the tension, trembling but clear.
"What if 'perfect' isn't a 'he,' Mom?"
"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 sets down her glass, the impact soft but final. Her face is a mask of composure, but her eyes betray a storm—grief and disbelief warring behind them.
"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 hand trembling as she pulls out her phone. She turns the screen to her mother: a photo of Elena and Sarah, radiant and at home with each other, faces pressed close with laughter in their eyes.
"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 lifts her keys, the small jingle echoing in the charged silence. She walks toward the door, every step deliberate, pausing at the threshold for a word that never comes.
Lydia remains at the table, composed yet undone, her world reshaped by the absence now filling the room. The roast grows cold as the lights cast long shadows, marking the end of comfort and the beginning of something new for both women.
