A month later, Mrs. Mireya came looking for me. I was coming back from the market, carrying vegetables and a bouquet of cheap flowers for myself. I found her sitting on the curb. She looked older. No makeup, no fancy purse, none of that neighborhood-empress tone.
“I need to talk to you,” she said.
“Talk to Sandra.”
“Bruno is doing badly.”
I kept walking toward the door. “Buy him some tea.”
“Laura, please.”
I stopped. Not for her. Out of curiosity. “What do you want?”
Mrs. Mireya took a deep breath. “Sarah left him.”
“What a surprise.”
“And he can’t come back to my house. His father found out everything and kicked him out.”
“What a traditional family. Everyone kicking someone out.”
The lady looked down. “I was unfair to you.”
That sentence sounded strange in her mouth. Like a new shoe on a crooked foot.
“Yes.”
She expected me to say “don’t worry about it.” I didn’t.
