That evening I went home to my parents’ warm, bright kitchen, where my mother and father were making tamales and Chloe was playing on the rug.

When she saw me she dropped her toys and ran into my arms — “Mommy!” — and I lifted her up and held her.

“Are all the papers finished?” she asked.

“All finished, baby.” “So we never have to go back to that house?” “Never again.” She laid her head on my shoulder, and then she asked the question that made me laugh and cry at once.

“And can I keep eating chicken here whenever I want?” From the stove my father boomed, “As long as your grandfather has a dollar in his pocket, you can eat the whole chicken every night of your life!” Chloe shrieked with laughter, and my mother laughed with her, and I stood in that loud, warm, fragrant room and understood the truth at last.