“More of the white wine, please, and see if there are any of those little mushroom caps left,” she said.
I looked down at her glass, then at her face. Her name tag said Pamela in gold lettering, and she smelled of heavy lavender perfume.
“I do not work here,” I said, my voice flat. “This is my apartment.”
Pamela blinked, her hand dropping slightly as she looked at my gray suit.
Before she could speak, my mother appeared from around the corner, her fingers draped over a cane she did not normally use.
“Oh, Pamela, do not mind him,” Carmen said, letting out a soft, musical laugh. “This is Zayden, my son. He is always so serious when he gets home from the office.”
She rubbed her right knee with a small groan, leaning slightly toward the woman.
“He lets me use the space for my little gatherings because he knows how lonely the winters get,” she added, her eyes narrowing as she looked at me.
Pamela laughed, a quick, social sound, and patted my mother on the arm.
“You are a saint, Carmen,” Pamela said. “Most sons would have tucked us away in some home by now.”
I did not answer her. I walked past them toward the kitchen door, the hum of the central air conditioner doing nothing to cool the sudden heat in my face.
The kitchen was narrow, smelling of reheated oil and lemon-scented dish soap.
My five-year-old daughter, Olivia, stood on a blue plastic stool in front of the sink. Her tiny fingers were wrapped around the edge of our heavy silver platter, the metal gleaming under the fluorescent light.
Her hands were bright red, the skin raw against the metal.
My wife, Jessica, stood right behind her, her forehead slick with sweat. Despite the heat of the afternoon, she wore a thick, long-sleeved cardigan, the cuffs pulled tight over her wrists.
“Olivia, put that down,” I said, reaching for the platter.
