TM Response: Something you weren't supposed to have heard.
"I know, Mama."
I know, Mama. After that particular conversation, Thelma Lopez wasn't the only one who "knew."
I had stayed home from work the day this particular conversation between Sandy and her mother had occurred. Henry was sick and Sandy was just coming off the night shift at the station. This was one visit in particular where her mother actually called before showing up on our doorstep. She often stopped by spontaneously when she was "in the neighborhood," and would then proceed to call Eduardo and Florina from our land line because "it doesn't cost anything."
I digress. The answer to this challenge has nothing to do with Mrs. Lopez and her annoyingly frugal ways.
I was in the livingroom when she arrived, rocking Henry and trying to get him to take his bottle. I was seated on the other side of the shared wall between the livingroom and the front hall. Thelma had come to discuss the babysitting schedule we were trying to work out. She had no idea of my presence. Or any idea of how thin the walls are.
They discussed trivial things at first; the weather, Henry's eating and sleeping patterns, etc. Then Thelma started in on me. She tended to do it quite often. Most of the time I wasn't around and Sandy would defend me--us--to the best of her ability. Up to this point, that is.
"She's not the one for you, mija. She's too old and with that leg? It can't be good for her to handle Henry so much."
Fuck you, you narrow-minded bitch.
What came next hurt more: "I know, Mama."
I know, Mama. No "Don't start now"; no "Please, Mama..." Not even pure silence. She didn't even try to change the subject. Just an almost-sympathetic "I know, Mama."
Sandy knew I was in the other room. Barely ten feet from where they stood. She was always the fighter, both verbally and physically. Had she given up? Had she simply not been in the mood to argue? Three little words, all to placate her mother.
The fact that Thelma proceeded to suggest Sandy meet the son of one of her friends was purely comical, despite the exchange that had just occurred. Then she told her that her neighbor "has a daughter like you." Like you.
Fuck. You.
I never said anything to Sandy about what I'd managed to overhear. Frankly, there wasn't much time. I never heard Thelma speak to Sandy about me after that, but she "knew." And so did I.