“He told me the group chat was getting too busy for me,” I said, looking down at the scuffed leather of my shoes. “He said it was easier this way. I asked him if it was a mistake, and he hung up after telling me I was overthinking.”
Juan folded the bandana into a neat square and tucked it back into his pocket. He looked out over the dry grass of the eastern pasture, where three of our remaining black Angus cows were standing under the shade of a mesquite tree.
“A family does not leave the mother out of the quiet talk,” Juan said. “Not unless they are hiding the price of the groceries.”
His words sat between us like a heavy stone. I looked past him toward the front porch, where the blue glazed flowerpot sat on the top step, holding a half-dead geranium and the brass spare key tucked deep into the dry dirt beneath the roots.
“I am going to call Laura,” I said.
Juan reached for another sack of feed, his shoulder muscles tightening under his chambray shirt. “She will tell you what Carlos told her to tell you.”
I walked back toward the house, my shoes crunching on the gravel. I did not want to believe him, but the silence from my daughter’s phone since yesterday was a cold weight in my apron pocket.
By one in the afternoon, the kitchen smelled of the chamomile tea I had brewed to keep my hands steady. I sat at the yellow formica table with the black cordless receiver pressed to my ear, listening to the rhythmic clicking of Laura’s car keys over the line.
“Mom, I am literally in the drive-thru at the bank right now,” Laura said, her voice trailing off as she hummed a snatch of a radio song. “What is going on?”
“I wanted to ask you about the family message group,” I said, keeping my tone as level as the kitchen counter. “Carlos took me off the list yesterday. I cannot see the photos of Sofia’s track meet anymore.”
I heard the sharp clink of her brass key ring hitting the steering wheel. She sighed, a long, airy sound that made me feel thirty years older than I was.
