—Kenzie —dije—, ¿alguna vez pensaste en Arlo?
She sniffed.
“¿Qué?”
“My son. Your nephew. Did you think about what would happen to him if I was arrested?”
“Mom said you’d be okay.”
“Mom isn’t a judge.”
“Lo sé”.
“No, no creo que lo hagas”.
She began crying harder.
I remembered all the times I’d helped her.
Picking her up when she missed the bus.
Lending her money for textbooks.
Driving across town because she’d forgotten an appointment.
Letting her borrow my clothes.
Mi laptop.
Mi auto.
I’d spent years believing that if I was generous enough, patient enough, and understanding enough, eventually she would treat me like a sister instead of an inconvenience.
But when she faced serious consequences, she had allowed our mother to offer me in her place.
I lowered my voice.
“Do you understand that I could have lost my job?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you understand that they took me away from my three-week-old baby?”
