They finally sit down at the table they always prepared.
It's Easter. The Easter bread is ready, the procession is on its way, the house is spotless, as tradition dictates. There are rules that don't need to be said: serve first, eat later. They've seen them in their grandmothers.
They are women of salt and fire, trained to make everything happen without ever leaving their place. To be there, without being there. To serve, without tasting.
But tradition has changed. Or they have.
They sit down. They taste before serving. They drink without asking. They stay. Not out of distraction, but by decision.
Like someone who realizes they've always been in the wrong place. Like someone who no longer fits the role they learned so well.
Does tradition remain or transform?
Matriarchs of their palate. True Portuguese. Mistresses of their appetite.