I mirrored her broken, skittish choreography with terrifying accuracy.

“Good morning, Mom.” My voice was a fragile, trembling reed.

Christine threw her bag onto the glass coffee table, splashing condensation everywhere. She ignored me entirely and marched to Tom, seizing his jaw, examining his pale, sweat-slicked face.

“You look terrible. Did you sleep?”

“Just tired.” He flinched away from her hand.

Her gaze drifted from the turtleneck over to my hunched, trembling silhouette. She stared for five agonizing seconds. Slowly, a triumphant smile stretched across her face.