“Bank?” he asked, looking puzzled. That’s when I lost it. I’m not proud. I’m human. “What is that you don’t understand?” I snapped, in my Argentine-accented English. “Put the towel on the bench.” He gave me an angry look. “I don’t understand Spanish that well,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone that swiftly reflected who was the mature one between us. “I speak English.” And with that, he shattered my heart into a million pieces. Months earlier, my three-year-old daughter had entered preschool and, as if on cue, had stopped waving good-bye with her sweet “te amo, mami.” Like her big brother, her vocabulary was becoming so sophisticated in English, that her español sounded forced by comparison. They could understand it, but they were struggling with the pronunciation and would rather not use it.