One evening, Mrs. Linda stopped her in the hallway.
Maya was wearing a black dress and holding a small purse. Her lipstick was bright. Her perfume filled the narrow corridor.
“Maya,” Mrs. Linda said cautiously, “who is with the baby?”
Maya gave a small, tired laugh, as if the question had offended her.
“He’s sleeping.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
Maya’s face hardened.
“I’m only going out for a little while. He’ll be fine.”
Mrs. Linda looked past her, toward the closed apartment door.
“He’s not a puppy you can leave with a bowl of water. He’s a newborn.”
Maya rolled her eyes, but the elderly woman did not move.
“You’re not a bad girl because you’re tired,” Mrs. Linda said. “But you will become a bad mother if you keep pretending that he can survive without you.”
For a moment, Maya looked as though she was about to cry.
