Then she looked up at me and whispered, “Mom, promise you won’t be mad at me.”
It was December 27 in Guadalajara.
The colored lights we had hung before Christmas were still glowing around the living room windows, scraps of wrapping paper remained behind the couch, and the house still smelled faintly of cinnamon, coffee, and the pine-scented candle Ricardo had insisted on buying.
Everything looked normal.
Sofía did not.
She usually came home from visiting her grandmother talking so quickly I had to ask her to slow down.
She would tell me what she had eaten, what she had watched, whether Grandma Teresa had let her help in the kitchen, and which cousin had annoyed her.
That afternoon, there was none of that.
Her steps were small and stiff.
Her arms remained pressed tightly against her sides.
When I asked whether she had enjoyed herself, she said only, “I’m tired.”
