She stirs the pot, scrunches her nose at the smell of garlic and herbs, and mops the sweat dripping down her neck.
A sudden clinking sound of bottles behind startles her, but she keeps her eyes on the pot. Her hands shake a little, more sweat breaks out. The braids of her hair tremble.
The clinking bottles move away, out of the kitchen, down the hallway.
She breathes and looks down at her protruding belly.
“Don’t burn it like last time. You hear me?” A thud in the living room.
She stirs the pot and wipes her forehead, “Yes, Daddy.”