It was an awkward breakfast the next morning.
Mom sat at the head of the table, still in her scrubs from the night shift, hair in a messy bun, eyes heavy with exhaustion. She was talking about some patient drama, something about a rude doctor and a chart mix-up but her voice sounded far away, like she was reciting lines she didn’t care about. She didn’t notice anything. She never did lately. She was always tired, always smelling faintly of antiseptic and hospital coffee, and it showed in the way she moved: slow, mechanical, like her body was running on fumes.
I noticed everything.
The way Carmen refused to look at me for more than a second. The way his hand rested on Mom’s waist, possessive but automatic like habit more than heat.
The way he kissed her when she leaned in for a goodby
