Yolanda broke the egg on the lip of the frying pan and cursed when the tiny splinters of shell fell into the pan.
“Que pasa, mama?“
“Nothing, Carmen, don’t worry.”
Yolanda’s smooth café con leche forehead furrowed into a delicate network of wrinkles as she scraped the shells out of the pan. This was the second time she’d done this today. That’s what she got for not concentrating. Her daughter Carmen sat patiently at the kitchen table, swinging her skinny legs. Her pigtails swayed in time to the movement.
“What are you making?”
“Huevos fritos, mi vida. Want some?”
“Yes, please, mom.” Such a good daughter, that one. Nothing like her good-for-nothing father, gracias a Dios.
Finally the pan was clean again. Yolanda reached for another egg and this time the egg broke cleanly, scattering no wanted slivers of shell. On a sudden impulse, she reached for two more eggs.
In Mexico, José Maria would have yelled at her for the waste. But they were in Texas now. And he was dead.