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Her Mother's Chair
Lena stood in the doorway with a bakery box and her coat still buttoned. She had come back to her aunt's city, and every visit so far had stayed polite. People asked about her job. People asked if the flat was quiet. Nobody asked her to stay for the long Sunday lunch.
She wanted her own chair at that table, not a spare one pulled in for a guest.
"I brought cake," she said.
Her aunt Rosa looked at the box, then at the coat. "Put it on the side. And take that coat off. You're letting the heat out."
Lena set the box down. The kitchen smelled of garlic and the oil her mother used. There were already more plates than people. Rosa's husband was cutting tomatoes. A cousin Lena hardly knew was laughing in the