For a moment, my mind did that thing it does when it refuses to accept a new reality. I read it once and felt nothing. Read it again and felt my throat tighten. Read it again and felt heat flare behind my eyes.
But the tears didn’t come.
My hand trembled slightly, or maybe it was the phone vibrating again from another message that didn’t arrive. The sauce behind me bubbled as if nothing had changed. Basil and garlic and tomatoes kept doing what they were supposed to do.
I turned off the burner without looking at it. The sound of the flame clicking out was tiny and final.
“We’re done.”
It sounded like a business email. Like a cancellation notice. Like the end of a subscription.
Not like a mother speaking to a daughter.
I stood there barefoot on cool tile, spoon still in my other hand, staring at the words until the screen dimmed and I tapped it awake again just to make sure they were still there.
They were.
My first reaction was physical. A tight band around my chest. A pressure at the base of my throat. A faint dizziness, as if the room had tilted. I put the spoon down slowly, as if sudden movement might crack something open.
And then, underneath all of that, came a strange quiet.
Not peace. Not numbness exactly. Something like a clean click of recognition.
It’s finally happened.
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