TO HATE, TO TOUCH, TO RUIN
“You’re the one who married me off to him, Ma. If we’re talking trauma, we can make it a family activity.”
Marisol sniffed the air dramatically. “I smell gossip,” she murmured. “And onions about to burn if someone doesn’t stir.”
She returned to the pan, adding diced tomatoes. The hiss filled the kitchen, blending with an old love song the radio had switched to. Water bubbled in a pot for coffee.
I grabbed a large bowl, poured in the masarepa. Warm water from the thermos. Salt. My palms moved on instinct, folding the mix. The soft, slightly sticky texture clung to my skin—exactly like in that stone kitchen in Montenegro a few weeks ago.
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