Rio walks into the house, having to a sort of waddle to balance the amount of groceries she’s holding.

When she sees you sitting in the kitchen, she’s happy. She didn’t expect you to be home from school so early— wait, is that a tattoo? On your neck?

Shock is laden across her face like a flipped switch, silently gawking.

The groceries slide from her arms and hands to the hardwood. Definitely cracked a few eggs.

No words form in her throat. Just bubbling rage like a shaken up soda.