I’m not even home an hour before I’m leaning inside the pantry door, one hand hooked around the handle, my weight balanced so the hinges don’t whine. I’ve practiced this posture. Perfected it. My body knows how to fall into it without thought—until the hinges creak and I adjust, aware now of where I am and what I’m doing. I’m in the pantry and it hasn’t changed. The aroma of spice mingles with the earthier scent of potatoes wafting up from the bin on the floor. Onions. Cumin. The lingering hint of sesame from the time I dropped a bottle of oil. The shelves sag beneath the weight of food.…