Lauren
The sink was full again.
No matter how bad your day was the task of chores never, just, get’s done. It’s weird, I blinked and suddenly I didn’t make my mom picking up after me, and I was one.
A good one? Well, that felt up to debate lately.
I let the water run, watching the steam curl upward in thin wisps, fogging against the windowpane. My fingers curled against the edge of the counter, gripping it tighter than necessary. The scent of dish soap—sharp, lemony—burned my nose in a way it never had before. Everything was too much now. The chemicals in the soap. The lingering smell of dinner clinging to the plates. The faintest traces of them—Owen and Abigail—from where their hands had touched their glasses, their plates, their forks.
Dinner had been quiet. Even Abigail’s bounci
