When I went downstairs, my mother was waiting near the stairs, eyes bright with anger.

“You’ve humiliated me in my own family’s home.”

I looked past her at the photographs lining the wall.

Mariana had chosen every frame.

“Mom,” I said, “you made Mariana feel like a stranger in hers.”

Evelyn leaned closer.

“You don’t know what that woman has been keeping from you.”

For a moment the old reflex stirred: trust the person who had raised me, doubt the person who had challenged her.