In the maid's quarters, a windowless cubicle next to the laundry area, Doña Mercedes Álvarez awoke. At 78, her body was a map of sacrifice: hands gnarled from decades of scrubbing other people's clothes, a back bent from carrying children who weren't hers, and honey-colored eyes that, though tired, held a spark of unwavering faith. The morning chill seeped through the cracks; in that house, the central heating didn't reach the maid's room, or as her son-in-law preferred to call her: "the helper."
Her bed was an old cot with a worn-out mattress whose springs dug into her ribs. On the nightstand, a faded wooden crucifix and a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe were her only treasures. “Holy Mother, my Lord, give me strength to endure one more day,” Mercedes whispered, crossing herself with difficulty as her knees creaked against the icy floor. “Take care of my daughter Carolina, because even though she can’t speak to me, I know she loves me.”
She put on her usual gray dress, mended at the elbows, and a shawl she had knitted ten years ago. As she stepped into the hallway, the aroma of freshly ground coffee and toast filled her senses, but her stomach clenched. She knew that breakfast wasn't for her.
In the kitchen, which looked like an operating room, it was so white and modern, stood Carolina. At 35, she was incredibly thin, her hair dyed a perfect ash blonde, and dressed in designer sportswear, but her face was haggard. Her eyes, shifty and nervous, avoided looking at her mother, as if eye contact burned her.
"Good morning, honey," Mercedes said softly, trying not to disturb her. Carolina jumped and looked up at the ceiling, checking that the coast was clear. "Mom, shhh, please. Rodrigo woke up in a bad mood. Don't make any noise. If he sees you here, all hell will break loose."
Mercedes felt the familiar pang in her chest, that pain that isn't physical but of the soul. She nodded silently and picked up her chipped pewter cup, the only one she was allowed to use because, according to Rodrigo, she "broke the fine china." She poured herself what was left in the coffeepot, a lukewarm, black liquid, not daring to add any sugar. "Sugar is so expensive, Mom, don't overdo it," Rodrigo had yelled at her the week before when he saw her put in two spoonfuls.
"Honey... is there anything I can do to help? Would you like me to make some chilaquiles like the ones you loved as a child?" Mercedes asked, a glimmer of hope in her voice. "No!" Carolina whispered firmly, her voice breaking. "Rodrigo says that's trashy food, that we eat healthy here. He's going to order an açaí bowl or something. Mom, please go to your room before he comes downstairs."
