My daughter had learned to make herself small in her own home. That was the moment my grief for her became something colder. Not rage. Rage is too loud.

This was quieter. This had hands.

Doña Rebeca held out her plate. “Wash this one too. And then heat up more tortillas.”

Valeria wiped her hands on her apron and moved toward the table. Andrés stood so fast his chair scraped the floor. He grabbed the plate from his mother and shoved it against Valeria’s chest.

“Didn’t you hear? Stop washing and get more food.”

The plate fell. It shattered against the tile. Valeria flinched before the last piece stopped moving.