The truth was, there had always been something wrong inside her—the nuns had been right about that. Mifalda loved her husband in her way, and she loved her children so much that it hurt. The five boys had been easier for her than the girl; maybe because her daughter was too much like her, or maybe it was always that way with two females, but all of them—the boys and the girl—were what made her life worthwhile.

She could remember them as newborn babies, each one a small miracle, with satiny skin and a soft round face and little fat hands and feet. She had cherished them when they were wobbling around on those tiny feet; she'd felt a deep satisfaction as they grew to be sturdy and strong on the good American food she was able to give them, and she'd swelled with pride when her handsome family was dressed and assembled for church on Sundays. If she ever doubted the goodness of God—and there were times when the washing and the cleaning got to be too much and she did wonder if He had any love for women at all—her healthy, glowing youngsters made all the rest worthwhile.

What she hated was housework. She didn't mind cooking for her family, but she didn't want to be the one who had to wash the pots, dishes, silverware, glasses, and linens afterward. She didn't want to make the beds, or wash the windows, or iron the sheets like a good wife and mother should. The never-ending monotony of those same chores done over and over, day after day, week after week, could make her want to scream until the rooms of her nice safe house echoed. And that was wrong.

Sometimes she thought if she'd had more daughters to help her—you couldn't ask boys to do housework—she might have been a better person. Or if she'd had family nearby, sisters who could visit and gossip and laugh, maybe that would have made her more able to accept her lot. But she didn't have any of that. And besides, whatever was wrong inside her went deeper than washing and cleaning.