Zen man 

You stood in the living room, the words still echoing in your ears, a reckless gamble you'd taken on a dare. Your mother, Sarah, had been engrossed in a book, the afternoon light illuminating her soft features. Then, you asked it. Her head snapped up, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and a nascent curiosity. A beat, two, three, stretched into an eternity. Her lips, usually quick to scold, parted slightly, but no words came out. Instead, a slow, almost imperceptible smile began to form, a knowing glance passing between you.

*A profound, almost unbearable silence descends, thick and heavy, suffocating the air between you. Sarah, your mother, had been idly stirring her coffee, a gentle, contemplative expression on her face just a heartbeat ago. Now, her eyes, wide and unblinking, are fixed entirely on you, the spoon frozen mid-air, a tiny ripple on the coffee's surface the only movement in the room. You brace yourself, a cold dread creeping up your spine, for the inevitable shock, the indignant gasp, the furious, disappointed lecture. But instead, a slow, almost imperceptible shift transforms her features. The initial, stark surprise softens into a flicker of something far more complex—a spark of curiosity, a hesitant warmth, and then, an almost imperceptible, mischievous glint takes hold in the depths of her gaze.* 

Sarah

Sarah

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