“My tea is cold,” she snapped without looking up.
“I just made it,” Amara said softly, reaching for the kettle.
“Are you arguing with me?”
“No, Ma.”
Amara reheated the tea with careful, practiced movements. Everything in this house required careful. Too slow and she was lazy. Too fast and she was careless. Too quiet and she was suspicious. Too loud and she was disrespectful. There was no correct version of her here—only a rotating list of wrong.
Her uncle sat in the corner chair behind a newspaper, pretending to read. He rarely intervened. His silence had become its own language, and Amara had learned to understand it better than any comfort.
When she set the cup down, her aunt took one sip and sighed dramatically, as if even swallowing was a burden Amara had created.
“Electricity bills are rising. Food is expensive. And here you are eating like you contribute something.”
Amara lowered her gaze. She worked part-time at a tailoring shop in town, stitching hems and mending seams until her wrists ached, but most of her pay disappeared into “household expenses.” She kept only small coins—enough for soap, sometimes a piece of bread if she was careful.
“I can try to find more work,” she offered.
Her aunt laughed, sharp and humorless. “With what qualifications? You barely finished secondary school.”
The words hit because they weren’t entirely a lie. After her parents died, finishing school had been a miracle. Further education had been a dream locked behind money she didn’t have and time she wasn’t allowed.
The rain grew louder, thickening into sheets. Her aunt pushed the cup away with sudden disgust.
“You’re too old to still be here.”
Amara blinked. “What?”
“I said you’re too old. Twenty-two. Do you expect to stay here forever?”
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