“Excuse me, Mrs. Elena…” she said with a smile so fake it hurt to watch. “I need to ask you something.”

Doña Elena, naive, smiled back.

“Of course, dear.” Tell me.

Mariana tilted her head, as if she were inspecting defective merchandise. Then, in a perfectly neutral tone, she blurted out:

Doña Elena felt a blow to her chest.

It wasn’t a question.

It was a sentence.

Mariana continued, mercilessly:

“Diego can’t take on any more expenses. He already has enough. I just want to know how long you plan to stay… so we can get organized.”

The last word—”get organized”—hit like poison.

As if the presence of an elderly mother were a logistical problem.