The morning had Nadia standing over a pile of tangled, stained fabrics, her back aching as shesortedthe whites from the colored. Every movement felt tiring, require an extra energy she did not have, her mind still fuzzy from the grueling marathon of applications she had finished less than forty-eight hoursago. 

She was just reaching for a dress with stubborn stain when she heard the familiar jingle of keys. 

Nadia straightened up, her brow furrowing. Her mother, Estelle, was standing by the front door, wearing her sensible walking shoes and a determined expression that Nadia hadn't seen in a while. 

"Mom?" Nadia asked, dropping a damp shirt back into the pile....