How could this be? What was her picture doing in the office of the most powerful person in the company? It was getting dark by the time she left the building. She boarded the crowded subway, then a minibus that took her three blocks from her home, in a modest neighborhood on the south side of the city. The image of the cutlery kept coming back to her. Her home was small, but cozy. Sofia turned the key carefully so as not to wake her mother if she was resting, but she found her in the kitchen, getting ready to leave.
“How did it go, honey?” asked Isabel, 51, a smile crossing her tired face. “I think so,” Sofía replied as she put her bag on the table. Isabel looked at her closely. She knew her daughter’s every gesture. “What happened? You look strange.” Sofía sat down and accepted the tea her mother offered her. “There’s my picture on the lawyer Arteaga’s table.
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