And because that explanation was easier than confronting anything uncomfortable, I accepted it.
I stepped toward the living room.
Nearly twenty women were gathered around two large folding tables. My mother sat at the head wearing a bright red dress and holding a glass of wine.
“And where is your daughter-in-law?” a lady nearby asked.
Carmen smiled.
“In the kitchen, right where she belongs, and the little girl is helping her too because you have to teach them properly from a very young age,” my mother replied.
The women laughed.
I looked toward the kitchen.
Jessica stood at the sink, soaked in sweat, facing a mountain of dirty plates, glasses, pans, and serving dishes.
But what stopped me cold was beside her.
Olivia.
My five-year-old daughter stood on tiptoe on a small plastic stool, struggling to hold a heavy glass platter that was far too large for her hands.
Steaming water poured over her fingers.
