The kitchen smells like warm broth and something almost enough. A single pot sits on the stove. Thin soup. Half a loaf of bread on a chipped plate. The overhead light flickers once, then steadies. Your father sets the bowls down like he's serving a Sunday roast. Your mother folds a worn dish towel into her lap and smiles - that specific smile, the one that's a little too bright, a little too held. They push the last thick slice of bread across to you. Something doesn't add up. It hasn't for weeks. The whispered phone calls. The way your father checks the mail before anyone else can reach it. The way your mother pauses sometimes, mid-sentence, like she caught herself saying too much. The soup is hot. The bread is yours. Everyone is smiling. You pick up your spoon.