Clara stood in front of the refrigerator longer than she meant to, her fingers resting on the cold handle, eyes fixed on the bowl of eggs lined neatly on the second shelf. They were too perfect—clean, identical, almost stern in their order.
In her childhood home, food had always come with caution. Leftovers were questioned, expiration dates double-checked, and anything older than a day felt risky. Safety meant freshness, and freshness meant today. Standing in her mother-in-law Ruth’s kitchen, Clara felt as though she were learning an entirely different rulebook—one written quietly, without explanation.
