I thought about picking up the phone to call Lupe, but instead, I flipped on the TV. A rerun of The Simpsons was playing. I stared at Marge Simpson, with her big hair and easygoing smile. Marge, to me, was like the perfect American mom. So warm and forgiving that even if Bart was setting the house on fire, she’d continue chatting with her sisters on the phone. “Maybe he just needs more love,” she’d say.
