Elara had made the soup without being asked.
That was how Fiona knew her mother had been worried. Not the kind of worry that announced itself, not the hand-wringing, not the pointed questions Elara's worry was always quiet and practical, showing up as food on the stove and the good throw blanket pulled from the closet and draped over the back of the couch before Fiona even arrived. By the time Fiona let herself in with her spare key that Saturday afternoon, the apartment smelled of lemongrass and ginger and something deeper, something that had been simmering for at least an hour.
"You didn't have to cook," Fiona said, dropping her bag by the door.
"I know," Elara said from the kitchen, not turning around. "Sit down."
Fiona sat.
