At exactly three, as though the clock had caught my thoughts, the bell rang.
The scent of chicken with mole filled every corner of the house, blending with the clean fragrance of freshly cut gardenias in the yard. It wasn’t a banquet, but it was the best my hands could prepare for such a day. It was Mother’s Day, and my heart, weary as it was, still managed to beat with expectation.
I opened the door and saw him: Ricardo, my only son, standing there with that catalog smile he’d adopted since becoming a businessman. He wore a navy suit that seemed new, shoes polished so well the worn mosaic tiles in the hallway reflected in them like water. A step behind, holding a bag from a fancy florist, was Samantha.
A white dress, manicured nails, and a sweet perfume that cut through everything like a sharp remark. “Mom,” Ricardo said, still smiling. “Happy day.”
– Thanks, son.
Come in, come in. The mole’s already ready. The furniture was old, certainly, but spotless; crochet covers guarded the armchair edges from wearing further.
I like believing everything has its place, that even though life had stripped me of things—his father, his strength, my once-nimble hands for sewing—the house remained a small homeland I still commanded. We hadn’t yet sat when, in a quiet tone that pierced me like a needle, my son blurted:
– Are you enjoying the seven thousand, Mom?
Seve
What happened next changed everything…
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