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Sylvia understood why. Pilar and Santiago had been having a prudent affair before deciding to take a chance on the new relationship. Then he had been offered a job running the branch office in his city, Saragossa. Long before that happened, your father and I only shared the comfortable habit of living together, of raising a daughter together, of getting together with friends, and that’s about it; we let time slip away, she explained. Mothers don’t leave fathers and much less daughters, thought Sylvia. On this occasion, traumatic but illuminating, Sylvia looked at her mother as a woman, not just a mother, that sort of sentimental household appliance, and she told her, you have to be happy.
    Sylvia’s father had latched on to the television, to music, to Sunday soccer games, to his work, to balancing the accounts,to getting back in touch with some half-forgotten friend, to his daughter, anything to avoid letting his defeat show. Sylvia observed him. She tried to spend more time at home, to cook for him when she noticed he had no energy for anything, to go with him on Sunday afternoons to her grandparents’ house. He always said “your mother” and never “Pilar.” Little by little, the photos and mementos disappeared, the details accumulated over twenty years of marriage. In two quick visits, she had finished taking her clothes and her work stuff, which filled the most frequently used shelves of the small office. Her bathroom things and other various belongings faded like afternoon light. In front of Sylvia, her parents hadn’t argued or displayed any more awkwardness than a thick silence that covered those scenes of separation. Mai always told Sylvia that the worst period of her life was her parents’ divorce, when a fucking psychologist told them that for her sake, for their daughter’s good, and I was seven years old, instead of separating cleanly they should do it bit by bit: they spent eight months insulting and beating each other up, so in order to save me the trauma of the separation I had to put up with the horror of their forced coexistence.
    She met her mother’s new love in an icy scene at a restaurant in Madrid. Later Sylvia was embarrassed about her stingy, ungenerous behavior. She saw him again when she traveled to Saragossa to help her mother settle into another city, another apartment, another life. But Sylvia maintained an unshakable loyalty to her father. He needs me more, she would say.
    One day, suddenly, the objects in the kitchen were organized differently and the various elements of the house seemed to be rearranged. The remote control for the television slept on the sofa, and no one put it back on the little side table. The cordlessphone never awoke on its charger, the washing machine didn’t sound with the same noise as its drum turned, the fruit bowl on the counter wasn’t always full. Her mother’s shadow hadn’t completely disappeared, but her hand was no longer felt in every detail of the house.
    Sylvia spoke with Mai on Saturday afternoon. She was with her boyfriend, far away. The conversation was short. Sylvia didn’t say anything about inviting Dani to her fake birthday party. She locked herself in her room to listen to music and her father asked if she was going out that night. I’m going to take a walk, he announced. Sylvia imagined him as one of those middle-aged men she sometimes sees in a club or a bar who seem to be flying low, like sad predators, out for the night without a partner, exposed. In bed Sylvia strokes herself with hands she imagines are someone else’s. Mai’s advice had been that she should sit on her hand for a good long time. Until it goes numb—then it seems like they’re someone else’s fingers and it feels better when you touch yourself. She had fallen asleep having decided to cancel her plans for the following day, feeling guilty and ridiculous.
    Dani brings two wrapped packages, which he hands to Sylvia as they exchange a kiss on the cheek. Am I