Gloria laughed into the sauce. I pointed at her.
“Not helping.”
Lola waited. Eight-year-olds had no respect for emotional self-preservation.
“That is private,” I said.
“So yes.”
“Go check the dinosaurs.”
“They’re right.”
“The stegosaurus is in the Cretaceous section.”
Her eyes widened. She ran to the living room.
“Low,” Gloria said.
“Effective.”
“You used paleontology to escape your feelings.”
“It’s a versatile field.”
Gloria lowered the heat beneath the sauce.
“What are you going to tell Amy?”
“About what?”
“Your feelings.”
“I don’t have a scheduled statement.”
“You sound like her.”
“I spend time with her.”
“I’ve noticed.”
I opened the refrigerator. Inside were two trays of enchiladas, salad, fruit, and the cake Lola had decorated with green frosting and small plastic runners.
“What is the cake?”
“Race theme.”
“It looks like grass.”
“Lola made it.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“You lie better to children.”
“I’m nurturing.”
Gloria leaned against the counter.
