Daniela arrived with that smile Amparo had never learned how to read.
Camila’s younger sister was twenty-eight, in a white dress that stopped at the knee, wearing sunglasses she did not remove even indoors. She set her bag on the kitchen table as though the house belonged to her.
“Where’s my sister?”
“She stepped out, Señorita Daniela,” Amparo said, drying her hands on her apron. “She’ll be back near five.”
Daniela nodded slowly and walked toward the garden.
Amparo followed her with her eyes, because something about that woman had been sitting wrong with her for months — the way she looked at the baby a beat too long, the way she went quiet whenever Camila talked about her marriage. But Amparo said nothing. In that house, her place had always been to stay silent, and she had learned the lesson well.
Through the kitchen window she watched Daniela stand over the stroller, looking down at the sleeping child for a very long time.
“He’s beautiful,” Daniela said aloud, not turning around. “More like his father every single day.”
Amparo did not answer.
Daniela turned and smiled at her — a strange smile, one that never reached the eyes. “Bring me a glass of water, would you?”
