After that first night, I decided her daughter would always return right around 8:30 p.m. And her mother would sit there, with her hidden bun and slicked back hair, with her bald head and her roaming eyes. And I could watch, only feeling a slight twinge of pain from the nails on my wrist. They’re not quite as sharp as a razor, but still effective; just enough, as Mother would say. Like the time I was baking with her and she said to put "just enough" salt in the cookie batter. Too much would ruin the taste. But my hands would shake and it was hard to get "just enough" perfect. After dropping a fourth of the bottle in the mix, we had to throw the batter away. It’s damaged, Mother would say. Damaged just enough.