The slap came before I could form an answer. My head snapped sideways. My vision sparked. I tasted metal.
From the hallway, Evelyn Whitman appeared in her robe—hair pinned tight, mouth set like a verdict. She looked at me the way you look at a stain you can’t scrub out.
Cole nodded toward the kitchen without taking his eyes off my face. “Get in there. Cook. Mom’s hungry.”
And I moved, because I always moved. Because that house had trained my body to comply before my mind could fight.
The microwave clock blinked 12:17 a.m. My shift had run long. Ten hours on my feet. My lower back throbbed with a deep warning that had been growing sharper these past few days.
I cooked anyway—chicken, rice, vegetables. Plain comfort, the kind Evelyn claimed she preferred.
My hands shook when I plated it. I told myself: five minutes. Just five.
Evelyn sat at the table like a queen receiving tribute. Cole leaned against the counter, arms crossed, enjoying the show.
She took one bite.
Her face twisted theatrically. She spit it back onto the plate. “This is what you call food?”
Before I could speak, she shoved the plate forward hard enough to rattle. Then her hand shot out and slammed into my shoulder.
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