One of my aunts asked where Amy had gone.
“She’s in the kitchen,” Betsy replied casually. “I told her to prepare all of this. She acts as though she’s delicate simply because she had a baby. A woman who is financially supported should work for the food she eats.”
I moved quietly around the side of the house and stepped inside through the back entrance.
Amy sat on a plastic stool, surrounded by greasy pans and towering piles of dirty dishes.
One arm held Frederick close to her chest, and his small body was burning with a high fever.