Once, home on a foggy spring evening, she and her mother sat together in a beam of lamplight in the living room, playing a card game on the carpeting. Her mother was still wearing a wool dress from work, her ears pinned with pearls, her wrists clinking with bracelets, her wedding ring sparkling in the light, blotches of ultramarine ink staining her fingertips as she reached toward the deck.
Beatriz cackled.
“Impossible,” Ana said, smiling at her in disbelief.
Beatriz grinned.
“You’re going to win again?” Ana exclaimed, and then she collapsed back onto the carpeting, throwing her cards into the air in defeat.