Dahlia scratches the tip of her nose with her middle finger. “That’s it.” Rosa throws her napkin on the table and points a finger at her daughter. “You’re in charge of dishes.” “But I got my nails done yesterday.” She holds up her hands, showing off her intricate nail art. “Wear my rubber gloves, then.” “Here you go.” I place my plate on top of Dahlia’s cleared one, making her scowl.
