The clock on the wall ticked steadily, a maddening reminder of the awkwardness unfolding in my own living room. My mom was perched on the edge of the couch, her sharp blue eyes scanning the space like a hawk assessing its prey.
She crossed one leg over the other, her perfectly manicured nails tapping on the armrest as if she were waiting for me to trip over my own excuses.
The Spanish lilt in her voice always became sharper when she was suspicious. "Layla, mi amor, you're lying. You are terrible at lying. Tell me the truth: Zaya is here, no?"
I threw my hands up, feigning exasperation. I might just lie a little maybe it will work.
"Why do you think she's here? She's not here!" I laughed nervously, too loud, and waved a hand toward the door. "She left hours ago!"
My mom arched a perfectly sculpted brow, leaning back and giving me that look, the one that said Do you really think I don't know my own daughter?
