And the little girl is helping too. You have to teach them from a young age.”
The women laughed. Then I looked toward the kitchen. Jessica was standing at the sink, drenched in sweat, with a mountain of dirty dishes in front of her.
But what left me breathless was beside her. Olivia was standing on a plastic stool on her tiptoes, holding a dish that was far too heavy for her.
Hot water was running over her fingers. Her hands were red, wrinkled, and covered in soap.
She wasn’t crying. That was the worst part. One of the guests set her glass down beside Jessica.
“Bring me some iced hibiscus water. And cut me some watermelon.” Jessica lowered her head.
“Yes, right away.” When she turned, I saw a wet bandage around her finger and an open blister on her wrist.
I dropped my suitcase. The impact against the marble made the entire apartment shake.
The laughter stopped. My mother went pale. And when my daughter saw me, she didn’t run into my arms.
She simply gripped the dish tighter and whispered: “Daddy… hurry, because if I don’t finish, Grandma said Mommy and I aren’t going to eat.”
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