That evening, I placed Ernesto’s handwritten schedule in the center of the dining table.
Paola arrived carrying a box of sweet bread.
Nobody touched it.
She picked up the paper.
“Dad, did you make this?”
Ernesto adjusted his glasses.
“It’s only a draft.”
Paola looked at him.
“A draft with specific days and times?”
“You have to organize things somehow.”
I had spent the afternoon counting everything still waiting at the workshop.
Thirty-seven dresses, pants, and other garments had already been promised to customers.
Eleven women had paid deposits.
Bety’s
