Mum did not release me immediately.
Her arms stayed wrapped around my shoulders, firm and warm, as though she feared I might slip away the moment she let go.
It was simply a mother holding her daughter, and the familiarity of it loosened something tight in my chest.
When she finally pulled back, her hands lingered at my cheeks, brushing beneath my eyes with her thumbs like she used to when I was small.
"Come," Mum said gently. "Let us eat before everything goes cold."
Maribel squeezed my hand once, subtle and reassuring, and the three of us made our way to the dining table together.
Breakfast had already been prepared. Warm bread, soft butter, sliced fruit, tea still steaming faintly in delicate porcelain cups. It looked peaceful. Ordinary.
Too ordinary.
The quiet settled over us like a heavy blanket.
Chairs shifted. Silverware clinked softly. Tea poured.
No one spoke.
