“Why is my pregnant wife the only one in the kitchen?” — I Asked My Mother and Sisters After Finding Camila Washing a Mountain of Dishes at 10 P.M.

When my sisters visited on weekends she cooked meals that filled the house with warm smells of roasted chicken, fresh tortillas, and cinnamon coffee. She asked about their jobs, their plans, their lives.

And for a while everything looked perfectly normal from the outside.

But if I am honest now, the small cracks had been visible much earlier than I allowed myself to admit.

They appeared first as comments disguised as harmless observations.

“Camila cooks nicely,” Veronica once said while tasting a spoonful of soup, “but Mom always added more seasoning.”