Your sisters stare at you as if you have suddenly begun speaking a language none of them recognizes. Your mother, Rosa Ramírez, sits in her usual armchair with her hands folded over her apron, her face unreadable in that way only mothers from your kind of family can manage. The television is still on, but no one is watching it now. Somewhere in the kitchen, the water has stopped running.
Isabel is the first to speak.
“What did you say?”
You do not raise your voice. Not because you are afraid. Because for the first time in your life, you understand that calm can be more frightening than shouting.
“I said,” you repeat, “that from today on, nobody in this house is going to treat Lucía like the maid of this family.”
Patricia lets out a short laugh, the kind that usually works as a weapon because it makes the other person feel foolish for being serious. Tonight it sounds weak.
“Diego, what is this drama?” she says. “She was only washing dishes.”
Only.
