Page 126 of Lured By Shadows

My eyes fluttered open, vision blurry and heavy, and I startled at the figure above me, my mind still tangled in sleep until her voice settled.

“Morning, Ladybug,” my ma sang softly, her tone light and careful, like she didn’t want to jar me awake.

“Ma…” I croaked, my voice thick with sleep as I wiggled deeper into the covers, my body resisting consciousness the way it always did. “What’s up?”

“You’re hanging with me today,” she reminded me gently, brushing my hair back before straightening. “Remember?”

“Right…” I nodded slowly, blinking against the fog in my head. “I was sleepin’ so good.”

“I could tell,” she chuckled, already turning toward the door. “I’ll be downstairs. I made breakfast.”

“You made breakfast?” I echoed, sitting up straighter, suspicion sharpening my tone despite myself.

“Yes,” she hummed, not even glancing back as she closed the door with an almost unsettling amount of serenity.

I stared at the door for a long moment.

Breakfast? From her?

I loved my ma, but cooking had never exactly been her strong suit. It was more her personal talent for turning simple meals into charred disasters that left you wondering where everything had gone wrong. All scorched eggs and mystery meats that barely pretended to be edible. Still, the fact that she’d tried at all tugged at something soft inside me, a warm flutter low in my chest mixed with quiet guilt because I hadn’t really been around much lately.

This felt like her way of pulling me back in, reaching out with whatever she had.

And if surviving her version of breakfast was the price of showing up for her, then yeah, I could handle that without making a big deal about it.

With a groan, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, my movements slow and heavy with leftover sleep. I stretched, yawned, and shuffled into the hallway before making my way downstairs.

The second I reached the bottom step, I paused.

There was a smell.

Not bad exactly. Just… concerning.

Toasty and faintly sweet, with an undercurrent of something I couldn’t quite identify. Equal parts intriguing and mildly threatening. I padded toward the kitchen and peeked around the corner like I was checking for danger.

“Eggs, bacon, toast, and milk,” my ma announced proudly the moment she spotted me, hands planted on her hips while she beamed at the plate like it was a masterpiece instead of a low-level culinary crime scene.

I slid carefully into the nearest chair with the reverence of someone trying not to hurt feelings or accidentally poison themselves. My gaze dropped to the plate, and I worked hard not to wince.

“The toast’s a little burnt,” I offered carefully, keeping my tone diplomatic.

She rolled her eyes but grinned. “I may or may not have forgotten about it,” she admitted, tossing her hands up. “Just for a moment, though!”

“Uh-huh,” I muttered with a smirk as I reached for the bacon anyway.

I took a cautious bite, chewing slowly, and my brain instantly confirmed what my eyes had already warned me about.

Dry. Overcooked. Nearly flavorless.

An actual tragedy.

I swallowed anyway.

“Thanks for breakfast, Ma,” I said, and I meant it.

The eggs weren’t much better, rubbery and uneven, but I didn’t complain. I pushed through each bite because deep down I knew it wasn’t really about the food anyway. Growing up, our mornings had always been rushed chaos and takeout containers, cold leftovers scattered across counters, Chinese food eaten straight from the carton, or pizza slices grabbed on the fly because she’d been up way too late buried in translating work again.

She had always been hustling to keep things together for us, always providing in the ways that mattered most. Cooking just had never been her thing, something she skipped over without a second thought. Honestly, I’d never held that against her; I never once felt deprived because what she gave me reached so much deeper than any meal ever could.