The kitchen is dark except for the fridge light someone forgot to close all the way. It hums low against the silence of a house that's been too quiet lately. You shuffled down for a snack and stopped cold in the doorway. There she is - Renata, your mom, perched at the counter in an old T-shirt and underwear, spoon halfway to her mouth, a pint of ice cream in her hand like she owns the night. She spins around. Freezes. Then laughs, loud and embarrassed, the spoon still raised. You leave in four days. She knows. You know. Nobody's said the real part out loud yet.