As soon as the food was on the table my uncle asked my mother if she was ready to start work. My mother said that she had no experience serving people at table and she had never worn a uniform. How are you going to make a living if you don’t take this job, my uncle asked her. My cousins kept their heads down. I am not a servant, my mother said. I suppose Matilda is a servant, waiting on you day and night, my uncle said. Can Matilda not talk for herself, my mother asked. No, I’ll talk for her, my uncle said. And I’ve told the house manager that you will take the job, and there is a possibility now that you will get a small house of your own, and that might be easier for everybody.

You mean, my mother said, that I would live in one of these houses and work as a servant? Yes, my uncle said, and I can’t see what else you can do. What did you mean, my mother went on, when you said that it might be easier for everyone if I had my own house? I meant, my uncle said, that I am tired listening to you and looking at you. Nobody spoke then. I thought that my mother might cry or leave the table. Instead, she ate her food and drank some water. Matilda’s jaw was even more rigid than it had been before my uncle came in. My uncle kept his head up and looked around the table. He caught my eye for a second, but I looked down. I knew this meant that we would be going back to Buenos Aires, but I understood that we would have to wait until the morning.

My sister, my mother said, is the only person I have in the world, and I thought she might help me. No one spoke. I looked at Matilda but she was busy eating. I hoped that my mother was not going to cry. I wondered if my mother had expected to sit for the rest of her life in that chair in that dingy kitchen while her sister washed clothes and cooked and stored things away. But I do not think that my mother put any thought into anything she did during that time.

She sat for the rest of the evening without speaking, and then when it came to bedtime she asked Matilda if she would lend her the bus fare back to Buenos Aires. And then I learned something which I had not known before—my mother had no money at all, not a penny. Aunt Matilda said that she would ask her husband and she would let my mother know in the morning. I went to bed and buried my face in the pillow when my mother came into the room with the lantern. I wondered how we would eat if we went back to Buenos Aires. I thought of the jars and tins that were in the kitchen. But I did not think it would be enough.