My mother didn’t respond to my shout.
She stood motionless, her gaze fixed on the floor, as if the mosaic tiles might swallow her whole and erase the moment. Her hands trembled, not from fear of me, but from shame.
Sofia sighed, crossed her arms, and said in a sweet voice, too sweet, « Honey, you’re exaggerating. Your mom is being dramatic. She’s just tired. »
But my mother barely shook her head, an almost imperceptible gesture. I knew her. That movement was her way of asking for help without uttering a single word.
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