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✯ E V E L Y N ✯
The front door creaks open. "Hi, sweetie," Eva greets me quietly.
"Hey, Mom." I give her a small hug, wrapping my arms around her small, frail shoulders.
She pulls back to plant a kiss on my forehead, cupping my cheeks to stare into my eyes with her own watery ones. Not again. "Oh, please don't cry," I beg, sidestepping to enter the house. "I just left for work. I'm fine like I always am."
She turns to me with her hands clasped, her features laced with caution. I sigh, hating the way she looks at me like I'm a China doll suspended above a surface, about to fall and break into millions of shards that can't be pieced back together.
"I know, honey, but I'm just worried about you," she quivers, blinking quickly so her tears won't fall. When did she become so emotional?
I shrug off my jacket and hang it on the coat rack, unwinding my scarf from my neck, leaving me in my T-shirt, jeans, and combat boots. I place my hands on Eva's shoulders, squeezing lightly. "Mom, this happens every day. I'm fine, I'm here now. I didn't get robbed, or raped, or kidnapped, or harassed - if you exclude annoying customers at the ice cream parlor," I say, attempting to lighten the mood.
Eva nods her head, smiling slightly. "Okay, then." A tear rolls down her cheek, and I gently brush it away.
"There we go," I murmur, and she pushes back some of her hair. It's so weird that we look so alike. We both have brown-black hair, light eyes, and small, slim figures. Dad - Charlie - is the only one in the family with sandy blonde hair, but he also has blue eyes.
Speaking of Charlie . . .
"Where's Dad?" I ask Eva as I lead her into the living room, grimacing at the sight of snow falling outside the window. I've always hated snow. There's just something about freezing your butt off, slipping on snow mixed with mud and having numb fingers, that doesn't sound so appealing.
Eva sits down on a sofa beside me. "He's in the kitchen, making lunch." Suddenly, she grabs at my hands and gives me a disapproving look. "Evelyn, your hands are freezing! Why didn't you bring gloves with you? Oh, let me go make you some tea or hot cocoa . . . "
I gently tug at her hands, stopping her from getting up. "Mom, it's okay. I'll go greet Dad and get some cocoa for both of us; your hands aren't any warmer." I stand up and enter the kitchen, which is connected to the dining room via an archway.
