Her hands

He hands unbutton her manteau, unscarf her hair and are washed in the kitchen's sink. They pick up a pot and boil some water, take some onions out from the pantry, chopping and wiping out tears. Her hands cook the rice and prepare the stew. They make dinner every night after she comes home from work.

My hands put the house keys in the cute little bowl on the table. They take off work clothes and put on sleepwear. They open up the fridge to see if they find something to eat, and when they don't find anything they grab two eggs to boil, a glass of milk to drink, or they might not even do that some nights. My hands only feel like cooking when it's a weekend. They will soon tuck me in bed, pick up a book or play a show on my laptop for me, until I fall asleep.

My mom's hands are cleaning up after dinner, with an extra pair of hands, maybe, helping them. Her hands are too tired to pick up a book.