They squirmed against her thin frame, their little faces pressed to her shoulder, letting out small, frustrated sounds. The weight of them bent her even more toward the floor.

Her hair was damp with sweat. Her breathing was short. Her knees were pressed so hard into the marble that I could almost feel the pain in my own bones.

“Almost done, ma’am,” she whispered without looking up. “My back just hurts a little.”

And there, standing in the doorway, perfectly dressed in a tailored blouse and beige trousers, arms crossed over her chest, was my wife.

Lauren looked at the three of them—her mother-in-law kneeling, her own children strapped to that fragile back—with the calm, distant expression of someone inspecting a piece of furniture that isn’t working properly.

The hit to my chest fue más fuerte que cualquier pérdida de negocio.

She let out a small, dismissive laugh. “Everyone hurts somewhere, Rosa. The difference is who decides to be strong and who decides to become a burden.”

She stepped a little closer, towering over my mother. “You want to keep living in this house? Then prove you deserve it. We don’t keep dead weight here.”