“I feel like everyone is judging me, you most of all.” Jeanette ran a hand over the marble countertop. Carmen tried to decipher a code in her eyes—were they red? Was she just tired? Were everyone’s eyes always somewhat red? She wondered if her daughter was the kind of woman who would leave a trail of blood without even noticing.

“Honey, nobody even knows about your … problems.”

Jeanette leaned back. She let the dishwasher door dangle open. “That’s just the thing,” she said. “I feel like all you care about is how people see you. How they see me. I feel like I’m constantly pretending, constantly afraid to say the wrong thing.”

Carmen wondered if Mario felt strange at the dinner table without Jeanette, whether he talked with other guests or felt like she would, counting the seconds until Jeanette returned. Carmen wondered if Mario would tell Jeanette about their encounter.

“You still don’t even tell the truth about Dad,” Jeanette said. “Every therapist I’ve spoken with says that’s unhealthy.”

Carmen’s hands shook as she rinsed each plate and placed it in its slot in the dishwasher. Of course it always came back to this, and each time it felt like an accusation, like Jeanette faulted her for what had happened even if she’d never say that. Carmen placed a rinsed spoon in its receptacle, and she felt the bile rise. To be around Jeanette was too painful. Was that the real reason she’d banned her? Had she just forgotten?

Of course Carmen hadn’t known about the abuse. For God’s sake, she’d stayed with Julio because she’d thought he had a level of love and affection for Jeanette that would dissipate under the weight of separate homes. Because she, Carmen, knew better than anyone what it was to lose a father. She’d never understand why Jeanette had waited until Julio died to tell her. Why she had let Carmen mourn this man, live with him all those years, sleep in a bed beside him. This man who was now an infection eating through her. She would have killed him had she known. She would have called the police. Would that have saved Jeanette? Even she knew that was a lie.

Jeanette had told her on the day of her husband’s funeral. She’d shown up slurring, moving from corner of the room to corner of the room like each one held an opposing magnetic force and she just could not find her place, falling asleep each time she sat down. Other mourners eyed her, cast sidelong glances at one another. And Carmen, furious, had thought, How could you do this? How could you do this to your father? She had kicked Jeanette out and continued to greet guests as if nothing had happened. She’d said Jeanette didn’t feel well.