One night in October, Marcos reviewed the bank statement at the kitchen table, an old table with one wobbly leg that his mother had given us when we got married. Outside, dogs were barking, and inside, the ceiling light flickered as always.
“We are almost 300 dollars short for the rent,” he said to me softly. “We are paying for gas with the credit card. And the car payment is due next week.”
His finger stopped on the transfer. I already knew that look: it was not reproach, it was exhaustion.
“They need it,” I answered immediately, too quickly. “You know how things are.”
Marcos sighed, took my hand, and squeezed it gently.
“Things are hard for us too, Sara. We have Lía.”
In the living room, as if she had heard her name, Lía let out a laugh while knocking down a tower of blocks. Her hair was tied in two messy little ponytails, she was wearing pajamas bought on sale, and she had that pure joy only children have when they still believe the world is a safe place.
“I can take more shifts at the café,” I said, the way I always did. “Janet asked if anyone could cover the weekend.”
Marcos did not argue. He never did. He knew there was a string inside me that my parents had learned to pull years ago.
Three weeks before Lía’s birthday, I began organizing her party with almost no budget. She wanted a princess theme and talked about it as if it were the most important event in the country. I made a small list: a homemade cake, cheap decorations, handmade paper crowns, gelatin cups, juices, and six invitations for children from her kindergarten. I also invited my parents.
I called my mother well ahead of time.
“Lía’s party will be on October 15, Saturday, at two. Are you coming?”
“Of course we are,” she replied. “Tell her her grandmother will bring her something special.”
I called again two days before just to confirm. My mother even got annoyed.
“We are not senile, Sara. We already told you yes.”
I hung up feeling foolish for insisting.
