Grabbing my keys from the dish by the door, my phone starts ringing. Mom. I groan, hesitating. Do I answer or just shoot her a text saying I’ll call later? I pause for a beat, then sigh and pick up. If I don’t, she’ll just worry. Ever since Andrew’s death, she’s been hovering more than usual. Throw in my lupus diagnosis, and she’s turned borderline overbearing. I know she means well; she’s a great mom, but I just want to feel normal again—like the person I was before Andrew, before all of this.
“Bendicion, Mami. Cómo estás? I say, trying not to sound like I’m in a rush, even though I am.
“Estoy bien, mija. Cómo estás? Estás demasiado delgada en esa foto de Instagram…estás comiendo bien?,” she says, voice laced with concern.
I bite my lip. I know she means well, but I wish she wouldn’t comment on that. I take a deep breath before responding.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m fine. Yes, I’m eating. I’ve lost a little weight, but I promise I’m okay.”
“Okay, okay, mamita. You promise to tell me if you’re not okay, right?”
“Yes, Mami—te lo prometo.”
“And you’ve been keeping up with your medicine? And that stretchy exercise the doctor said could help with your pain?
I laugh. “Stretchy exercise? You mean yoga? Yes, I go whenever it fits around my client meetings. And I take my meds every day—I even set an alarm on my phone.
“Okay, good. I’m happy to hear that,” she says, sounding relieved.
“Was there something you needed, Mami?”
“Nada, mamita. I just wanted to check in on you, make sure you’re okay. Tonight’s dominoes night with the girls from bingo, so I wasn’t going to be able to check in before bed.”
I smile despite myself. Mom means well. I know that, and maybe I need her hovering more than I want to admit.
If there’s one thing my mom loves, it’s playing dominoes. Before my dad passed away, Friday nights were theirs—dominos, alcapurrias, flan, and Hector Lavoe playing from their radio.
Hearing that she’s playing again makes me so happy. After Papi passed, she couldn’t even look at a domino set. A love like theirs comes around once in a lifetime. She was shattered after his stroke took him, her grief swallowing her whole.
When he died, she became everything people expect me to be right now—a walking ghost. A heart in pieces, too broken to exist. I wish I felt that way. I wish this were normal. I wish I had a love like theirs. But I don't. I didn’t. And I don’t think I ever will.
“That’s great, Mami. I’m glad you’re having a girls' night. Just don’t play too hard, okay? I know you guys like to play for money, and if you put in all your effort, you’ll wipe out their bank accounts.” I say, humor in my voice.
Did I mention my mom is a champion domino player? Sweet little Lucia turns into a ruthless competitor the second she picks up a tile. Before moving to Lake City, Colorado, she grew up in Puerto Rico, where domino tournaments in the park were a big deal, and she was undefeated.
That’s how she met my dad—going head to head, and of course, she beat him. Every time he tells the story, he grins and says she slapped down the winning domino with a sharpclack, leaned back in her chair with her arms crossed, a smug grin on her face as the whole table erupted in laughter. Then she smirked at him and said, “Ay bendito, papito, pa’ esto hay que tener talento, y tú… bueno, mejor suerte pa’ la próxima." He swears that was the moment he knew she was going to be his wife. He always loved how competitive she got when they played games.
But if you ask my mom, she’ll say he really fell for her after tasting her pastelillos.
Pastelillos have a golden, flaky crust and can be filled with all kinds of things, the most common being carne molida—bursting with spices, garlic, olives, and onions. She swears that after his first bite, she saw it in his eyes. He was in love.
And honestly? I believe her. No one makes pastelillos like my mom. I guess the saying, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” rang true for my dad.
My mom’s laughter pulls me from my thoughts, and she says, “I can’t make any promises, mija. Ya tú sabes, I can’t go too easy on them!”
I can picture her smile as she says this. She’s probably standing at her kitchen counter, her signature cup of coffee in hand—black, with one packet of Sweet’N Low. Like me, my mom is a small woman, barely five feet tall, but she packs a punch. She’s the perfect mix of hard and soft, firm but fair.
She was always clear about the rules of the house and about the expectations she had. But not once did she ever make me feel like I couldn’t turn to her. No matter how badly I screwed up—and believe me, I’ve made plenty of mistakes—she was always there.
She’s been there for everything, every crush, every heartbreak. She’d laugh with me, cry with me, and spend nights teaching me how to cook. We’ve had more game nights than I can count, and of course, I can’t forget the evenings we spent watching telenovelas with crackers and cafecito, dipping them in just the way she likes.
She truly is my best friend. I couldn’t dream up a better mom even if I tried. I swallow hard. So why have I hidden so much from her?
I just don’t want to break her heart. And I guess…I don’t see the point in rehashing the past. Andrews gone. He’s never coming back. He can’t hurt me anymore.
Maybe if I don’t talk about it, if I don’t turn it into something bigger than it already was, I can pretend it never happened.
Maybe then, I can finally move.
