I untied my apron, sat at the kitchen table, and looked at the grocery-store flowers I had bought for Mom with tip money.
Pink carnations.
Her favorite.
I had worked a double shift to afford the nicer bouquet.
My phone buzzed again from an unknown number.
It was a video.
Mom stood at the head of the table, raising her glass. “To my children who made something of themselves.”
Someone asked, “What about Lena?”
Mom smiled like my name tasted cheap. “Lena chose a simple life. We respect that from
