Chapter 3

My mother's dissatisfaction with Leona was nothing new.

From the day we got married, she kept saying, "I never should have let you marry her."

Back then I was poor, and marrying an orphan didn't draw any talk.

Now that I'd made it, she thought Leona wasn't good enough for me.

Every week she came over to "see her grandsons."

But she really came to pick fights.

"How did you mop this floor? It's all greasy."

Leona followed behind her, holding the mop. "Mom, I just mopped it. Maybe it hasn't dried—"

"Just mopped it? Looks to me like you were just going through the motions."

Then she moved into the kitchen and opened the fridge for a look. "Why buy so much food? It'll go bad and be a waste of money."

"Mom, that's for this week—"

"Look at other men's wives. They know how to budget. And you?"

Leona said nothing, just stood there with her head lowered.

I stayed on the couch scrolling my phone and didn't make a sound.

What did she have to feel wronged about?

Wasn't my mother right?

One time my parents came over for dinner together.

Halfway through, my father set down his chopsticks and looked at Leona.

"Leona, don't hold it against us for speaking bluntly."

Leona raised her head, tension on her face.

"You're an orphan, no parents, no family home to go back to. Brandon marrying you gave you something to lean on. You need to know that in your own heart, and stop making him worry all the time."

Leona's chopsticks paused.

Our older son, Guy Gutierrez, sat beside her, only eight, too young to understand grown-up talk, just eating his pot roast.

Our younger son, Ronald Gutierrez, only five, was poking at the rice in his bowl with a spoon.

Leona lowered her head and said softly, "Dad, I understand."

My father nodded and went on eating.

The rest of that meal was very quiet.

After I saw my parents off, Leona was washing dishes in the kitchen.

I went in for a glass of water, and she suddenly spoke.

"Your parents say such hurtful things."

I turned on the faucet and filled a glass.

"Weren't they right?"

She turned to look at me, her eyes reddening.

"Brandon, all these years I've—"

"All these years you've what?" I cut her off. "If you had anything going for you, would people talk about you like that?"

She froze.

I ignored her and carried my glass out to the balcony.

The phone in my pocket buzzed.

A message from Arlene: "Brandon, I miss you."

I sent back a smiley face.

Behind me, the clink of dishes drifted from the kitchen, very soft.

Like she was keeping it down on purpose, afraid someone would hear.

I slept deeply that night.

Sometime in the small hours I half heard a noise, rolled over, and drifted off again.

The next morning, breakfast was on the table as usual, hot and steaming.

Oatmeal, pickles, and the egg scramble both boys loved.

Leona was busy in the kitchen with her apron on.

"Mom, I want milk!" Ronald called.

"One second, coming right up."

She came out carrying the milk, nothing unusual showing on her face.

I ate a couple of bites of oatmeal and glanced at her.

Her eyelids were swollen.

She'd probably cried all night again.

I picked up a bite of pickles and thought: cry if you want, it won't change anything anyway.