maybe you should stay away, Soledad. You might make it worse, she says, pushing me away and continuing to rub lotion on my mother’s legs. She makes me feel like I’m ten. And how will I make it worse? You’re afraid of her — that’s how. My grandmother grabs my hands, faces my palms up and says, See how they’re unsteady and weak. You have fear in your hands. She’s your mother, yet you’re afraid.
relationship made of fear
