The hum of the refrigerator.
My own pulse steady at sixty.
“You think your city uniform makes you special?” Silas said against my ear.
I was not wearing a uniform.
That was part of the humiliation he wanted.
He needed the imaginary version of me to attack.
A girl playing at authority.
A secretary with an attitude.
A daughter who forgot her place.
“To me,” he said, “you’re just a girl who needs to learn her place.”
Linda gave a weak laugh.
Then a stronger one when he looked at her.
“Maya, stop being dramatic,” she said, phone still raised. “You’re just a secretary.”
The words did not hurt the way she thought they would.
There had been a time when I needed my mother to see me clearly.
That time had passed so quietly I almost missed its funeral.
On the table, my phone lay beneath a grocery receipt.
