“It’s fine, Mamá.Perfect.”
She sits back down, but her eyes are scanning the table like she’s taking inventory.“I made extra rice.It’s in the fridge for later.And there’s chicken for tonight if you want?—”
Another scoop of eggs lands on my plate.
My chest tightens.“Mamá?—”
She reaches for the beans.
“That’s—”
More plantains.
“Stop.”
Her hand freezes mid-air, the spoon hovering over my plate.We both go still, and I wince at how harsh I sounded.
“What’s wrong?”she asks, her voice careful.I stare at my plate—this mountain of food that I didn’t ask for, that I can’t possibly finish.My throat feels tight.I don’t know how to explain this.How to tell her that kindness from her feels foreign, overwhelming, like something I don’t know how to hold.
I press my palms flat against the table, trying to steady myself.My pulse is racing like I’ve done something wrong just by asking her to stop.
“I’m not...”I take a breath.“I’m not used to this much attention.”
She sets the spoon down slowly.“What do you mean?”I can feel her eyes on me, but I keep staring at my plate.The eggs are perfectly scrambled, fluffy and golden.She always made the best eggs.
“I mean...”I force myself to look at her.“I’m not used to you fussing over me.”
Something flickers across her face.Confusion.Maybe hurt.
“I’ve always fussed over you,” she says, and there’s something defensive in her tone, something that makes her sit up straighter.
The words make me freeze, and for a second I can’t breathe.I want to let it go.I want to nod and smile and pretend she’s right because it would be easier, because we just started this fragile thing between us and I don’t want to break it already.
But I can’t.
“No, Mamá,” I say softly.“You didn’t.”
Her jaw tightens.
I push forward before I lose my nerve.“The only person who used to follow me around during breakfast was Papá.”My voice cracks on his name, and I hate that it does.“He’d make sure I ate something before school.He’d pack my lunch.He’d ask if I wanted seconds.”The memories come flooding back—Dad standing at the stove, Dad sliding an extra tortilla onto my plate, Dad ruffling my hair as I ate.“After he died, you were always...”I trail off, searching for the right words.“You were focused on everyone else.Not me.”
The color drains from her face.She just sits there, frozen, and I can see her processing what I’ve said.Her lips part like she wants to speak, but nothing comes out.Her hands curl slowly into fists on the table.
Panic rises in my chest.“I don’t mean anything by it,” I say quickly.“I’m just saying—I’ve always been used to fending for myself.I understand.You had so many kids to handle, and I was always causing you trouble, and I learned how to make my own breakfast and pack my own lunch, and?—”
“No.”Her voice cuts through mine, sharp and final.
I stop mid-sentence, my mouth still open.
“You didn’t cause me trouble,” she says, and her voice is quieter now, but there’s something heavy in it, something that makes my chest ache.The silence that follows is suffocating.She’s staring at the table now, her hands flat against the wood, and I can see her shoulders rise and fall with her breathing.
“But I know you were doing your best,” I continue, my voice smaller now.“I know it wasn’t easy raising all of us alone.I just mean that I’m not used to you making me breakfast, or putting food on my plate, or checking if things are warm enough, or?—”
“Eve.”I stop.My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.“Don’t—Don’t make excuses for me,mija.Please, don’t.”She doesn’t say anything else.She just picks up the spoon again and heaps more food onto my plate—slowly this time, deliberately.Beans.Another tortilla.Her jaw is set, her mouth a thin line, and her movements are almost mechanical.
It’s her apology.I know this.My mother has never been good with words, with ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I was wrong.’She speaks through food, through service, through the things she can control.This—this overflowing plate—is her way of saying what she can’t articulate.What she maybe doesn’t even know how to feel yet.
My vision blurs.I blink hard and pick up my fork, stabbing at the eggs.They’re still warm, still perfectly seasoned the way she’s always made them.I take a bite, then another, forcing myself to eat even though my throat feels tight.
