The woman standing beside Nathan was Mrs. Alvarez, the private cook who had been preparing Angela’s meals three evenings a week for nearly two years. I knew her face from family parties, but I had always assumed she was simply one of Angela’s friends. Nathan calmly explained that after his father died, Angela complained that cooking for herself was exhausting, so he had quietly been paying Mrs. Alvarez every month. Angela’s face turned bright red when Nathan smiled and said, “But you’re right, Mom. A good woman should cook for her family herself. I’d hate to insult you by continuing to pay someone else to do it.”
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