My brother Sylvester Perez sat to her left, head down, scrolling through his phone. My sister Pat Perez sat to her right, kneading Mom's feet and massaging her legs, glancing up at me every now and then.
My youngest brother, Val Perez, was the most impatient of all, fingers flying across his phone screen. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching the three of them, a weight like a stone pressing down on my chest.
The old house had finally been demolished.
But I never imagined it would end like this.
Mom glanced at me. Not a trace of guilt on her face.
"You're the eldest. Taking care of the family, looking after your brothers and sister—that was always your responsibility."
"You're single now anyway. No reason to fight them over this."
"Go make dinner. Everyone's hungry."
The three of them went on with what they were doing. None of them said a word.
I looked down at the spatula I'd used for twenty-five years. The wooden handle had been worn to a shine, its edges warped and misshapen.
Something in my chest froze solid.
I draped the apron over the back of a chair, poured myself a glass of water, drank it, set it down, and walked toward the front door.