I remember the basket in my hands, lined with a linen cloth, warm enough to keep me anchored while the rest of the room tipped out from underneath me.
“Mom,” he said, eyes still on his plate, “what’s your actual plan here? I mean…
when are you moving out?”
He said it as if he were asking about a leaking faucet.
Not with anger.
Not even with impatience sharp enough to defend myself against.
Just a tired, practical tone.
The kind that tells you the speaker has already decided the problem is reasonable and only the delay is awkward.
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