The kitchen is full of shadows.

Dim light peeks through thick, heavy curtains, painting subtle streams on the faded, grave-gray wallpaper that veils the walls. Yellowing white paint peels from cabinets stacked with dusty plates and cobwebbed mugs, and piles of dirty dishes form a wobbling Tower of Pisa in the soapy sink. And on the edge of the chipped veneer table perches a lonely cup of coffee, lifeless, half empty, and growing cold.

I stare down at it now, eyes droopy and downturned, as feeble wisps of steam drift from its surface like ghosts’ breath. Funny. In my haste to leave, I must have forgotten to finish it.

That never used to happen.

Hands trembling, I pick up the lavender mug with both hands and take a slow, hesistant sip. It’s lukewarm. Bitter and boggy and flat, like mildew. Did I leave it on for too long? Or does it just need more sugar? I don’t know how to fix it—I don’t even know how I like my own coffee. I never had to; she used to make it for me every morning exactly right and we would sit and drink it while the sun came up, bathing us in rose-gold petals of morning light.

But we can’t do that anymore.

I feel my shoulders crumple, my eyes burn pink, my throat clench up, but I swallow it all back, downing the rest of the burnt coffee in one determined swig before rushing to put my shoes on.

I’m going to be late for work.