Alma appears to have been crying: her daughter’s face is red, scrunched, like the baby she’d been at the beginning, except now it’s streaked with mascara and much, much sadder, or if not that—Alma had felt her infant discontent deeply, and expressed it with gusto—at least a more complex sadness, because sadness got more confusing as you got older, accreted and layered and camouflaged itself until the source was buried beyond discovery.
