I stared at the greasy pan in my hands, scrubbing with enough force to strip the metal. The sound of laughter filtered in from the living room. My mother's laugh. The one I hadn't heard in months. The one Iris was currently falling for like it was some kind of magic spell.
"So there's little Isaiah, maybe six years old," Mom was saying, her voice carrying over the running water, "standing in the middle of the playground with his pants completely soaked because he decided to jump into a puddle to impress this girl."
Iris cackled. "No way! Was he always this serious?"
"Oh god no. He used to smile. Used to laugh all the time. Before he decided he needed to be the man of the house."
I nearly snapped the sponge in half. Before I decided? Like I'd had a fucking choice?
The soapy water swirled down the drain, carrying away the remnants of the pasta dinner I'd made. The pasta I'd cooked. With ingredients I'd bought. In the apartment I paid for.
