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Her neighbors called it a quirk. Her mother called it wasteful. Lila called it a tiny rebellion that hurt no one. The sugar was only for Sundays, when the house smelled of lemon and sunlight pooled like permission on the dining table. On weekdays she brewed her tea thin and respectable, a pale amber that matched the meetings and the grocery lists. On Sundays she allowed herself the gilded grain—two measured spoons, maybe three if the day felt heavy and she wanted to buy a smile. little innocent taboo install