Jake’s birthday was coming. Helen did what she always did when words got tangled—she cooked. Streamers, sprinkles, vanilla and cinnamon hanging in the air like music. A small bouquet of yellow tulips for Lisa, because once, a long time ago, they’d made her smile.
She texted: Pancakes at eight? We’ll frost the cake after school. No reply. She told herself phones die. People sleep early. Tomorrow will be normal.
Tomorrow arrived, sat down, and ate her hope for breakfast.
