The Wistful Dinner
The soup was too hot. Margaret knew this, not by the scald on her tongue, but by the way the steam rose in distinct, trembling columns, curling around the silverware like smoke from a extinguished candle. Across the small, laminate-topped table in the kitchen of her suburban home in Ohio, her daughter, Elena, sat with her back to the wall, her posture rigid as a board. The clock on the...
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