Desire (wlw)

XXXV.

Isabel

I woke up before Lea. Way before I usually did. Maybe it was because I'd just buried my father, the reality of it all weighing heavier than I'd anticipated. Or maybe it was the house itself—a place I hadn't slept in for years, yet every corner still carried the echoes of my childhood. Either way, I was wide awake, staring at the ceiling in a room that wasn't mine but somehow still felt like it was.

The soft sounds of clinking dishes and muffled movement came from downstairs, pulling me out of my thoughts. I carefully slid out from under the covers, glancing at Lea. She was still curled up, her face peaceful in sleep, her hand tucked under her cheek. I didn't want to disturb her, so I quietly made my way out of the room and down the creaky staircase.

The smell of something faintly sweet hit me as I rounded the corner into the kitchen. My mom was at the counter, a bowl of flour, eggs, and milk spread out in front of her. Her back was to me, and I watched for a moment as she whisked the mixture together, her movements steady and deliberate.

She must've sensed me because she turned her head slightly, catching me out of the corner of her eye. "Good morning, mija," she said softly, offering me a small, tired smile. "You're up early."

"I couldn't sleep," I admitted, stepping into the kitchen.

She nodded knowingly and gestured toward the stool by the counter. "Come sit. Are you in the mood for French toast?"

I blinked, caught off guard by the question. French toast had been a weekend staple when I was a kid—one of the few things we'd made together as a family when life was simpler. I hadn't had it in years.

"Sure," I said, my voice quieter than I intended. I sat down, watching her move with a practiced ease. Her hands worked methodically, dipping slices of bread into the batter and placing them on a sizzling pan. The smell of butter and cinnamon filled the air, bringing with it a bittersweet kind of comfort.

"Do you remember when we used to make this together?" she asked after a moment, her tone light but tinged with nostalgia.

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Yeah. Saturday mornings before dance practice."

She smiled again, her gaze distant. "Your father always burned the edges, no matter how hard he tried not to."

That made me laugh, the sound surprising both of us. "He'd blame the stove," I added, and she chuckled, shaking her head.

For a moment, the heaviness in the air lifted. It was just me and her, reminiscing over something as simple as French toast, the kitchen warm and filled with the comforting crackle of the pan.

As I sat there watching her plate the French toast, carefully dusting it with powdered sugar, I couldn't help but feel a pang of gratitude. My mom was trying. She was really trying. It wasn't lost on me that these small gestures—making my childhood favorite breakfast, the way she looked at me like she was searching for ways to ease the hurt—were her way of making up for all the times she hadn't been there.

When the divorce happened, it had swallowed her whole. She'd been so consumed by it that there was barely anything left for me. And I hadn't resented her for it—I'd just learned to adapt, to lean on myself. But seeing her now, so present, it struck me how much she was trying to be better.

"Do you want to do something today?" I asked, the words slipping out before I'd even fully thought them through.

She paused, mid-reach for a fork, and looked at me with a mixture of surprise and warmth. "You sure you're up for that? I'd understand if you need to take some time to process everything, mija."