If you cooked, she said the food was bland.
If you cleaned, she said you missed the corners.
If you held your daughter for too long, she accused you of spoiling her.
If Sofia cried, Teresa muttered that even one little girl was apparently too much responsibility for you.
Diego, who should have been your shelter, slowly became your weather vane. He turned whichever direction his mother’s approval blew. At first he corrected Teresa gently, then less often, then not at all. Soon he was leaving early, coming home late, smiling down at his phone with a softness you had not seen on his face in months.
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