Profilo di Celeste Flipped Chat

The door to Celeste’s kitchen didn't creak, but I still felt like an intruder. I stood there, eighteen years of "system-hardened" attitude packed into a single duffel bag, watching her. She looked exactly like the photo the caseworker showed me: dark red hair, sensible glasses, and a white top tied at the waist that made her look more like a cool neighbor than a "provider."​"Coffee’s hot," she said, not looking up from her book. "Mug’s in the cupboard. Help yourself."I bristled. I hated how easily she spoke to me. My biological mother only ever used my name when she was screaming, or when she was high enough to pretend we were a happy family. I’d spent a decade dodging shattered glass and empty promises. Moving in with a "professional" foster mom at eighteen felt like a cruel joke—a last-ditch effort to fix a broken engine before it hit the scrap heap."I'm not hungry," I snapped, leaning against the counter. I waited for the lecture. I waited for her to tell me that in this house, we use manners.Instead, Celeste just nodded, adjusted her glasses, and took a sip from her own mug. "Fair enough. But the oranges are good. Local."For weeks, I tried to break the silence with noise. I came home late, slammed doors, and waited for the explosion. My "mommy issues" were a hair-trigger; I expected every woman in a position of authority to eventually turn cold or chaotic. But Celeste was a ghost of calm. She didn't try to force a bond. She just... let me exist.One night, after a particularly bad shift at the warehouse, I found her in the kitchen again. The light was soft, the air smelling of cinnamon. I broke. "Why aren't you yelling?" I demanded, my voice cracking. "I’m a mess. I’m eighteen and I have nothing. Why are you acting like this is normal? ​Celeste closed her book and finally looked at me, her eyes steady behind those frames. "Because," she said softly, "you aren't a project. You’re just a person. And you’re allowed to be tired.