The car feels very quiet once I am alone. I put on a playlist, let the music fill the empty space, and drive to the juice bar. Maya, the owner, waves me in from behind the counter. "You are my favorite person today," she calls. "I have all the pretty fruit ready."
The air smells sharp and fresh. Oranges, mint, mango. Her new assistant stands near the crates and fiddles with the hem of her T-shirt.
She has soft arms and a round belly and the kind of wary eyes I know too well. "Hi," I say. "I'm Lena, and I'm going to annoy you by moving things around for the next hour."
She smiles a little. "I am Rhea."
I set my board near the big front window and start sorting fruit. Bright ones in one pile, softer colors in another. Maya chats while she washes glasses.
I ask Rhea if she wants to pour one of the juices for a shot, only her hands in the frame. She flushes and shakes her head fast.
"I'm not good on camera," she says.
"It’s juice, not a movie," I answer. "If you change your mind, you tell me. If you don't, that is fine too."
She relaxes a bit and steps closer to watch. I shoot overhead views of sliced citrus and close shots of juice streaming into clear glasses.
I leave fingerprints and stray droplets in some of the pictures on purpose.
I like it when food looks touched and wanted, not frozen and fake.
When we finish, Maya hands me a smoothie and refuses payment. "You make everything look alive," she says. "I hope you charge more than you did last year."
"I'm working on it," I say, and I mean it.
From there I swing by the grocery store for basics. Pasta. Milk. Fresh fruit.
A box of cereal that Jace will pick apart to find the marshmallows.
At the flower stand I grab a small bunch of daisies.
They were on sale, and the house always feels nicer when something is blooming on the table.
My phone buzzes while I am loading bags into the car. It is a text from my dad. He asks how Jace is and then adds that a friend's son is new in town and "very responsible" and "would be good dad material if you stopped being so picky." He finishes with a comment about how I should think about "presenting myself better" if I want to attract a serious man.
My chest tightens. I stare at the screen for a few seconds, then type back a simple reply saying Jace is fine and we are busy today.
I don't respond to the rest. I tuck the phone in my bag and focus on starting the engine.
By mid-afternoon, I am home again at the kitchen table, laptop open, camera plugged in. I scroll through the morning's shots and flag the best ones. The juice in the glass glows. The mint looks fresh.
Rhea's hand sneaks into one frame, and I keep that picture.
Her wrist is soft and strong, and I want someone who looks like her to see that and feel good.
The neighbor’s dog barks at every delivery truck. A group chat of other parents keeps pinging with debates about lunchboxes and screen time.
I answer one message and then mute the conversation. The work settles me. Adjusting color, cropping, sending a preview sheet to Maya. When I look up, it is time to pick up Jace.
School pickup is a rush of backpacks and shouted goodbyes. Jace runs to me and launches himself at my legs. "Mama, Tommy brought a rubber spider and Miss Kiran screamed so much," he says. "She jumped."
"This is top-secret information," I say. "I'll need the full report over snacks."
Back home, the tea room becomes a café again. I slice apples, sprinkle cinnamon, and drizzle a small line of honey.
He arranges them on a plate and tells me I owe him ten pretend dollars for the privilege of eating them.
We do a little coloring together. I answer a couple of emails from clients while he builds a tower of blocks at my feet.
