“Me too.” It’s hard to say those words when there’s not an ounce of truth in them.

“Come on.” She takes my arm. Once she and I are alone in the kitchen, I remember I’m wearing a black lace veil and pull it up. Denise puts on a pair of oven mitts, reaches into a shopping bag, and removes a stock pot, but the bag sticks. “Can you pull?”

I slide it off and fold it. She puts the pot on a back burner and takes off the mitts, exposing the scars of being cut into marriage, then turns on the flame.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Lentil soup.”

“Oh, your specialty!” I stand next to her.

She stirs and snorts back a lump of allergies. “It’s for you-know-who. I’m not putting any salt this time because he doesn’t deserve any.”

Dario. She’s cooking for him.

“Ah.” I fight saying more. I told her he rescued women just like her from the violence of the life she’s living, but she doesn’t seem to see that as a virtue.

She bangs the spoon on the rim and covers it, then leans her back on the counter and crosses her arms.

“I’m so sorry, Sarah.”

“For what?”

“In the bathroom. The last time I saw you, I was so mean. You shocked me. Not you. He did. That terrible monster just standing there like… gahh.” She sticks out her tongue and makes her hands into sharp, attack claws. “Can you forgive me?”

“Always.” I take her claws and wait for her to mention what she saw on the video, but she does not.

“Let’s go next door. We’re making dresses from scratch for the poor.”

“Great!” I wish I could shove it in Sergio’s face that we can be charitable. I’ve already forgotten that I don’t have to defend this community.

We leave the kitchen for the adjacent room, where we’ll face the dangers of needle and thread.

I’ve been here a hundred times. I know the wall of old sash windows, the iron radiators under them with water-stained gray industrial rug cut around their feet. This was a room of comfort and laughter where I learned how to do something useful.

The four women around the table also wear mourning dresses. My father’s death will be commemorated by yards and yards of black fabric for a month. Only blood relatives get the privilege of the veil.

Lili and Amara Travera sit at the two sewing machines. Ginny Franco cuts a piece of gray fabric.

They all look younger. Dewier. And yet, there’s suspicion behind Ginny’s eyes—as if she wants to trust me but isn’t sure if I’ll turn into a ten-headed lizard.

Grandma’s coming back from the wall of cabinets. Her hair is coming out of its braid and her black dress is getting stepped on at the hem. She’s holding a plastic bin with blue masking tape striping the side. “REPAIRS” is written on it.

She’s the one who looks older—even more aged than the previous night. I remember trusting her and knowing I shouldn’t at the same time. I wanted her love so much. After my mother died, I’d needed it, but Grandma had seemed so angry that Mom had the temerity to be gone.