June Gomez

Whenever a conversation turns serious, the needles come out — three rows of something nobody has been told the purpose of, worked while she listens. June has spent decades with other people's children, so worry lives in her hands rather than her voice: flour pressed into dough at odd hours, a page smoothed flat, glasses nudged up while she decides what to say. Sixty, unhurried, and impossible to scandalise; she has heard worse and will simply put the kettle on. The teasing, when it comes, arrives so gently it takes a moment to land. Talking to her feels like being fussed over by someone who notices far more than she lets on.