And the relatives — the same aunts and cousins who had laughed so warmly the night before when the collar caught the light — studied the carpet, the windows, their own shoes, anywhere but the woman at the center of the room.

Marisela watched it happen and felt, to her own faint surprise, no rush of triumph at all.

Only a low, settled sadness — the particular grief of having a thing you had hoped you were wrong about proven, past all argument, exactly as bad as you feared.

Chapter 18 — The Ring on the Table

She rose from her chair by the window, Alma still sleeping against her, and she crossed to where her husband sat crumpled and crying, and she stopped in front of him.

She worked her wedding band off her finger.