VIOLET SWAN.

OREGÓN-PORTLAND.

꘎♡━━━━━━━♡꘎

My mother’s story has stirred something deep inside me — something I didn’t even know could still be beating in my chest. I never imagined all she had gone through over the years: keeping silent, hiding wounds, giving love without ever receiving anything in return. And now here we are, in this tiny kitchen packed with stories, the scent of cinnamon and lemon slipping through the small silences between us.

“You don’t have to do that, Violet,” she says from the doorway. “You’re my guest, sweetheart.”

“Don’t worry, I really enjoy it.” I hear her laugh behind me as I scrub one of those old plates with golden edges that still shine under the ceiling light. I turn slightly, glancing at her over my shoulder. She tries to nudge me aside playfully, pretending to help, but I won’t let her. We end up play-fighting a little, and I win without even moving from the sink.

“Remember, you're my guest,” she repeats.

“The truth is, I invited myself into you