Cold.
The kind of cold that doesn’t appear all at once. It forms slowly, like ice building inside hidden pipes, while everyone in the house keeps drinking from the tap and pretending the water tastes the same.
You think about all the afternoons she came by after Roberto died. The way she insisted on organizing your papers. The way she asked where the deed was kept, where the car title was, which bank Roberto preferred, whether you still remembered your passwords. At the time, it felt like help. A daughter stepping in to protect her widowed mother.
Now you can see the truth moving beneath those moments like a snake through tall grass.
She wasn’t helping.
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