I’m Lucia, and at sixty-five, I’ve learned that family gatherings can be more exhausting than a day of hard labor. This particular Saturday afternoon at my daughter-in-law Amanda’s house was no different. It was the annual barbecue that my son, Robert, insisted we continue, even though the atmosphere had grown colder with each passing year.
Amanda stood by the grill, her blonde hair perfectly styled despite the oppressive July heat, directing Robert as if he were hired help rather than her husband of eight years. She wore one of those expensive, effortlessly chic sundresses that likely cost more than my monthly grocery budget.
