"Mamá," I say.
"What? I love him. He's wrong, but I love him."
My father smiles at her with his crinkly eyes. "Alright, my loves. Almost done?"
"Almost." I turn back to the filing cabinet. "Ten minutes."
"I'll start locking up the front," he says, and disappears back into the main part of the shop.
My mother watches him go, then she turns to me and whispers. "Don't tell him I said this," she says, not lowering her voice at all, "but he's right. It was Mrs. Chakraborty."
"He can hear you," I say.
"He knows I love him," she says, then she goes back to the report.
We work in a comfortable quiet for a few minutes. The scent of antiseptic. Lavender hand lotion, and the faint sweetness of the glucose tablets my father keeps in a bowl on the counter swirl around me.
“The reconciliation count is done,” I say, powering down the computer.
"So," my mother says, without looking up. "Your apartment."
I close my eyesbriefly. "Mamá."
"I'm only asking."
"You've asked fourteen times this week."
"I'm a thorough person." She flips a page. "When do you sign the lease?"
"Friday."
She makes a sound clearly not pleased.
"I'm twenty-seven years old," I say gently.
"I know how old you are," she says. "I was there."
"It's time for me to move out.”
"You could stay another year," she says. "Two. Who would know?"
"Ma.”
"I'm just saying.” She flips another page. “You could save a lot of money.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I say, wrapping my arms around her shoulders. "I'll come for dinner every Sunday.”
"Every Sunday?" she repeats as her dark eyes slide to me. "And every Wednesday too. I want to make sure you’re eating."
"And Wednesdays, too,” I relent.
"And if you get sick."
"Mamá."
"Fine." She stamps the last report with more force than necessary. "Fine. Go. Leave your mother. See if I care."
"No. You clearly don’t care at all.”
