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Weekly Contest #342
The kitchen smelled of rosemary and old resentment.Kathleen stood at the butcher block, her knife moving with a rhythmic, lethal precision. She didn’t need to look up to know that her mother, Delores, was standing in the doorway, judging the way she diced the onions. Delores didn’t just enter rooms; she occupied them, trailing the scent of Chanel No. 5 and the suffocating air of a woman who had never been told "no" and survived."You’re cutting those like a laborer, Kathleen," Delores said, her voice a silk ribbon with a razor edge. "No fines...
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