Mom hit the kitchen first.She came around the corner in leggings and a cashmere wrap thrown over whatever she’d worn on the plane, hair half-fallen from its clip, face pale and exhausted and already wet with tears.The second she saw me, she made a sound I never wanted to hear again.Not a scream.Not even a cry.Just that sharp, broken inhale mothers make when they’ve spent an entire flight imagining the worst.“Lela.”I barely got out of the chair before she was across the kitchen, arms around me so tightly I almost lost my balance. She smelled like perfume and airplane air and the peppermint gum she always chewed when she was nervous.“I’m okay,” I said immediately, because of course that was the first thing out of my mouth.Mom pulled back just enough to cup my face in both hands and look me over like she was checking for damage.“Don’t tell me you’r
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