Rita's Point Of View
The zipper on my old suitcase mounted a spectacular resistance, refusing to close over the extra layers of linen and cotton I had tucked inside. Seven o'clock sharp, and the gray Texas dawn bled through the window blinds, casting pale shadows across the bedroom floor.
"Mama, if you squeeze one more jar of local honey into this bag, the seams will explode all over the carpet," Seraphina muttered, her fingers digging into the thick fabric as she leaned her entire weight onto the suitcase. Her knuckles turned white, her jaw locked in that rigid line she always wore when tackling a difficult problem.
I recognized that expression… the same fierce determination I'd seen in her father's face a thousand times before, though she'd never admit the resemblance. "I'm an operational director, Mama. I handle multi-million dollar structural balances, and yet your packing habits are the most complex logistical crisis I've ever faced in my entire career."
