I would get up at 5:00 in the morning. I’d make coffee the way Daniel likes it, strong with a hint of cinnamon. I’d make breakfast—eggs and beans, chilaquiles, toast.
I’d wake up my grandchildren, Michael, nine, and Sarah, six.
I’d comb their hair, pack their lunches, and see them off at the school bus stop.
Emily would dash out at 7:30, always impeccable in her business suit and her $240 French perfume.
She wouldn’t even look at me on her way out.
Daniel would leave half an hour later.
Sometimes he’d kiss my forehead.
Sometimes he’d just say, “Thanks, Mom,” without looking at me.
And I would stay behind, clearing plates, doing laundry, mopping floors that never seemed clean enough for Emily.
Because every afternoon when she returned, she would inspect.
She’d run her finger over the shelves looking for dust. She’d open the fridge and frown if something wasn’t in its exact place. She’d check the bathrooms like a health inspector.
