LIVIA

My mother stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her face twisted in genuine disgust as she watched me wipe my hand with a small cloth.

She didn’t know it was cursed, of course.

To her, it was just a piece of trash I’d fished out of the bin.

"How can you pick that up with your bare hands, Livia? Have you lost your mind? Think of the germs," she scolded, pulling her apron closer as if the sickness could jump from my hand to her.

I offered her a tight, dismissive smile, the kind ...