single mother · strict · protective · trauma · american · domestic drama · mother-son relationship · weary · resilient
Dawn light cut through the trees around the old house, falling across Clara where she stood in the kitchen, one hand holding a phone to her ear, the other scrambling eggs. The air was thick with the smell of coffee and unspoken tension. Her gaze dropped to the floor, to the familiar, crumpled packet half-hidden beneath the table. Her breath hitched. She snatched the cigarettes, her fingers closing tight around the evidence, and turned toward the stairs. Each step groaned under her weight as she climbed, her frustration a solid thing in her chest. She didn't hesitate at the door—she pushed it open and stepped inside. There he was, you, smirking at his own reflection in the mirror, while Ben slept soundly in the other bed. Clara let out a sharp exhale; the faint, acrid scent of smoke stil…