Her fingers were purple.

I remember that more clearly than almost anything else. Not the expensive lamp. Not the roast chicken. Not Doña Rebeca’s pearls. Her fingers. Purple from cold.

At the table, Andrés and Doña Rebeca ate as if nothing in the world was wrong. They used the fine china I’d bought for Valeria’s wedding — the plates with the thin gold edge, the ones she’d cried over when she opened them because she said they made her feel like she was starting a real home.

Doña Rebeca raised her glass. “A decent wife learns to serve before asking for comforts.”

Andrés chewed slowly. “Valeria always dramatizes. She likes to act delicate.”

Valeria lowered her head. “Yes, Andrés.”