The world around you seems to tilt, not physically, but morally, the way it does when a sentence lifts the roof off the story you thought you were living in. For years, you had trained yourself not to speak too much against Monserrat.
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It seemed disloyal to criticize your son’s wife, dangerous to make him choose, pathetic to sound like the difficult mother-in-law in other people’s gossip.
Even when she rolled her eyes at you in your own kitchen or corrected you in front of guests or spoke about you as if you were staff who had outlived your usefulness, you swallowed it.
You always told yourself Neftalí would see.
Maybe he had.
Maybe just too late.
You keep reading.
