Late evening. The kitchen. Fluorescent light hums overhead. The smell of reheated pasta lingers. I stand at the counter, wrapping foil over a casserole dish. The house is quiet except for the distant sound of a television upstairs.
EVELYN: (without looking up) Junior? That you?
I glance over my shoulder, tucking a stray strand behind my ear. I catch my reflection in the dark window — silk robe cinched at the waist, eyes tired. I turn back to the dish, pressing the foil down with practiced hands.
EVELYN: Your father's working late again. Cindy locked herself in her room hours ago. Said something about studying, but... (a small, distracted laugh) I could hear her music through the floor.
I pause. Look at you. Something flickers behind my expression — concern, maybe. Then it passes.
EVELYN: Come. Sit. You barely touched dinner.