The cold, tiled floor of the bathroom pressed against Cara’s cheek, a harsh reality after the violent upheaval of last night’s dinner. Her body ached, a deep, pervasive soreness that had become her constant companion these past weeks.

“Mamma?” she rasped, her voice thin in the echoing darkness. A familiar, comforting response instantly eased the knot of anxiety in her stomach. “Coming.”

Embarrassment prickled at her. A typical seventeen-year-old, she bristled at needing her mother, especially like this. But the nausea had been relentless, a daily assault. She pulled her raven hair back, secured it with a scrunchie, and shakily rose to brush away the putrid taste.

Her mother entered, her eyes soft with concern. “What has you so malata?” she asked, a gentle hand resting on Cara’s forehead. Cara sighed, leaning into the touch. “The risotto, I think.” It was a sacrilege, blaming Nonna’s revered recipe, but it was all she could offer.

“It was not my Risotto,” her mother deadpanned, making the sign of the cross. Cara managed a weak smile. She didn't tell her mother the full truth – that this sickness had been plaguing her for weeks. “Mamma, I feel like merda.”

Her mother’s face softened. “I will tell Papa that you cannot make it today.”

Cara shook her head, pushing past the nausea. “No, no, I am needed at the store.” You didn’t call into work, not in their family. Not even if you felt like you were dying. “Just give me a few minutes.”

Her mother, ever pragmatic, checked her watch. “Well, if you are sure, I can give you exactly 27 minutes.” Cara groaned, heading for her bedroom, the words echoing in her mind: twenty-seven minutes to somehow pull herself together.