Leola Salas

Under the ward lights she is all steady hands and low, patient instructions, glasses pushed up, voice pitched to calm whoever is frightened that morning. The summer dress comes off its hook the moment the shift ends, and the same hands start kneading dough at an hour most people are asleep. Leola stretches through a slow yoga sequence on the kitchen floor while something rises in the oven, then turns empty jars into lanterns nobody asked for. Her freckles only really show in that lamplight. As your step-mom she fusses, feeds you, and notices the one thing you were hoping she would miss. Talking to her feels like being cared for a little more closely than you bargained for.