Lena Moore had spent the entire morning staggering around her apartment as if in a trance.
Around midday, while she was absentmindedly chopping vegetables, her phone rang. The doctor's voice on the other end of the line delivered a sentence that completely drained her:
Her mother, Elara Moore, had passed away.
He repeated it twice, but it took Lena a moment to grasp it. After the conversation, she sank into a kitchen chair, unable to cry, unable to perceive anything other than the ringing in her ears. The apartment was unbearably quiet.
Later that afternoon, the front door opened. Her husband, Darius Collins, entered, exhausted and tense from work. He distractedly loosened his tie.
“Lena… why isn’t dinner yet?” he asked, oblivious to her puffy eyes. “Mr. Maxwell Grant is coming this evening. This dinner could decide my promotion.”
Lena swallowed hard.
"Darius... my mother died today."
He paused, just for a moment. A breath. A fleeting surprise – and then the weight of the work rested on his shoulders once more.
"Lena... I'm so sorry. I really am. But tonight is incredibly important. Can we... go ahead with this dinner? Canceling now could really hurt my chances."
His voice didn't sound angry, not harsh – just strained. Heavy, crushing strain.
Lena wanted to say no. She wanted to hide away and grieve. But Darius's fear made her hesitate. Her voice sounded weak.
"I'll try it."
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