Dinner time at my mom's house was always an event.
Whether it was a simple weeknight meal or a grand holiday spread, the kitchen seemed to transform into the heart of the home a bustling, chaotic space filled with the smells of spices, the clatter of dishes, and the constant hum of conversation.
This time, though, it was different. Zaya had offered to help my mom cook, and she was in the kitchen with her now, the two of them working together like they'd been doing it for years.
"She's such a show-off," I muttered, watching Zaya move around the kitchen with that effortless grace she seemed to have for everything. She was chopping vegetables with precision, her green eyes focused, while my mom stirred something on the stove, the two of them chatting like old friends.
"She's charming," Alicia said from her spot on the couch, sipping a glass of wine. "You should be grateful she's getting along with Mom."