I watched her lower herself carefully to the kitchen floor when she thought the house was empty, to catch her breath.

And then I watched a recording from that very afternoon, in which Maya choked briefly on a piece of soft fruit — and my mother crossed that kitchen faster than I would have believed she could still move, and lifted my daughter, and cleared her airway with gentle, expert care, until Maya coughed and breathed and cried normally again.

And then, the instant the baby was safe, my mother sagged back against the kitchen wall and slid down it to the floor, and her loose blouse rode up above her waist.

And I saw what she had been hiding.