Ernesto replied. “What I don’t understand is why your mother wants to ruin something good.”
I felt the familiar impulse to make the argument disappear.
Lower my voice.
Clear the dishes.
Tell everyone we could talk tomorrow.
I had spent years doing exactly that.
When Ernesto came home frustrated.
When money was tight.
When our children were young.
Back then, I often confused silence with peace.
This time, I left my hands on the table.
“I am not moving at the end of the month.”
Ernesto leaned back.
“Then what
