Chapter 106
The First Impression
All the preparations were done.
For three days my mother had worked without rest, moving through the house with restless energy. Now everything looked too perfect. The floors shone. The air smelled sharply of lemon. Nothing felt lived in anymore.
The flowers sat stiff in their vases, bought at a price we shouldn't have paid. Their petals were wide open, almost strained, like they'd been forced to bloom on command.
My mother stood in the middle of the living room, hands gripping her apron. She wasn't really seeing the room. Her eyes were locked on the front door, as if she could already feel people standing there, like the neighbors, relatives, women who used to smile at us and now pretended not to notice.
"It has to be perfect," she said, not to me but to the room itself. It was as if the hundredth time. "There can't be a single flaw. Not a speck of dust. Not a wilted petal."
