While eating, Celia tells me that this is one of Mariano's favorite Filipino dishes that she makes for him from time to time. Apparently, he was craving for it yesterday, so Celia went to the market and cooked it for him today. I can't blame him, it's really delicious. I feel satisfied after my meal.
Against Celia's protest, I help her wash the dishes in the sink. My mind goes back to Mariano's scars, and I'm tempted to ask her about them. Does she know? She has to know, right? After all, she spent most of her life in this house with the Morellis. Women are perceptive. But how do I ask her?
Pressing my lips into a thin line, I wipe my hands dry with a tea towel. I feel my heart in my throat. I gulp for the third time and then Celia turns to me as if she senses that I'm uncomfortable.
"What is it, Mrs. Morelli?"