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“Coop,” Colter shouts as he pinches my leg. He can obviously sense the tension rolling off my body in waves. “It’s all good, khoya.”

Blinking, I fight past the lump in my throat, gripping the edge of the table as my vision clears. “S-s-sorry. What did you say, Mom?”

“Are you okay?” Concern laces her words.

Inhaling, I respond, “Yes, Mama. I’m fine.”

Liar!

I can feel Colter’s eyes boring into the side of my head. He knows I’m lying. He won’t call bullshit while she’s on the phone, but I expect it’ll come up in conversation very soon.

“Is everything okay with you?” I ask.

The concern in her icy-blue gaze melts, warmth appearing in its place as she gives us a bright smile. “Yes, of course. I’m just checking on my babies.”

“Ahhh, Ma. We’re not babies,” Colter uncharacteristically complains. A reaction only our parents can get him to do.

She tsks, “I carried, birthed, and nurtured you, so you’ll be my babies forever.”

This time, I join Colt in his admonishment. “Ughhh. Not this again.”

Happier at the knowledge she’s just peeking in, my shoulders relax for the first time during our video chat. The earlier tension, evaporating as I realize the perceived danger was a psychological response. I frown, hearing my mother’s voice in my head, explaining this very point.

Side effects of having the renowned chief psychiatrist, Dr. Jalila Jacobi, as a mother.

“You two will not give me lip on this. I’m calling a Momable,” she announces, and I throw my head back at her version of audible. Colt shakes his head at the terrible football-spoofed word. She’s used it since our pee-wee football days.

“Fine, fine, fine,” I mumble. “We’re your babies.”

She snickers, pumping a fist in the air. “Momable for the touchdown.”

“I’m going to hang up if you keep this up, Ma,” Colter gripes, but she doesn’t bat an eye.

“You will do no such thing, Colter Emirhan Jacobi, or I’ll forget to send the Ghriba I just baked,” she threatens, panning the phone to the freshly baked, drool-worthy batches of cookies.

Colt and I shout a chorus of nos, and she cackles. Legit, full belly cackles at our pain.

I clutch my chest. “You wound us, Mother. How could you ever punish us in such a way?”

“Then, I advise you to tread lightly when threatening to hang up on me,” she quips. There’s a moment of silence before she continues. “I’ll pack these up. Two batches are for you two, and this batch,” she states, pointing to another platter of Ghriba, “is for Eva.”

At the mention of her name, my smile slides off my face.Why her?She doesn’t deserve them.

“Don’t you give me that look. Evie’s there, and she’ll get some, or I’ll send yours to her as well,” she commands.

“But, Ma,” I begin, and am abruptly cut off.

Our mother holds up her hand, effectively silencing any rebukes. “I will not entertain any bullshit from either of you. You had better not mistreat Eva on that campus. She’s family, and she also lost?—”

“No,” Colt snarls. “She didn’t lose anything. She’s the cause ofourloss.” The vitriol in my brother’s voice is icier than the blue depth of our eyes.

“Colter Emirhan Jacobi! ma thdrch m?aya bhad ?riqa.”

Colter forgot himself and passed a line, and he knows it.

“You can still be angry, but you will not be disrespectful. Do you understand me?” Her tone is unyielding, leaving no room for Colter to do anything other than nod his head.

My lips part, but no words come out when I see the pain etched into every part of her face. She’s hurting, clinging to the last vestige of her daughter’s light—the one that infuriatingly still clings to Eva’s skin.