I open my mouth, and then nod, whispering, “Okay.Alright.”
I let out a quiet sigh.There’s so much hurt inside me.A part of me says not to believe her, not to trust her intentions, but the other part of me, the girl who’s been neglected for so long, wants that second chance.She wants another chance to have her mother.
I wet my lips.“I’m almost late for work.”
Getting up, I wait.For the comment about how I’m always working.For the judgment about my job, about how I should be home, about how women shouldn’t be working so much, about how I should be focusing on other things.For the sharp words about how I’m wasting my time, throwing away my life on something that doesn’t matter.
But they don’t come.
Instead, she stands abruptly and moves to the counter.“I made you lunch,” she says, her back to me.“For the office.”
I blink.“You...what?”
She opens the fridge and pulls out two containers.One is smaller, the other larger.She sets them both on the counter and gestures to them.“This one is for you.The other has empanadas and rice for your colleagues.”She pauses, her hand resting on the larger container.“When your father used to go to work, I would always pack him a lot of food to share.He liked that.”
I swallow, emotion clogging my throat.
“You can share if you want.Or not.It’s up to you.”She’s walking on eggshells around me, both of us circling each other, not wanting to say the wrong thing, or do the wrong thing.I stare at the rigid line of her shoulders, at the way her hands are now gripping the edge of the counter like she needs something to hold onto.
“Thank you,” I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper.She nods once, then busies herself with wiping down the counter that’s already clean.The silence stretches, and something in my chest loosens.Just a little.
“Will you...”I hesitate, my fingers curling around the back of my chair.“Will you still be here when I get back?”
She looks up at me then, and for the first time since she arrived, she looks uncertain.Vulnerable.Like she’s not sure if I’m asking her to stay or to leave.Her throat works as she swallows.“If you want me to be,” she says quietly.
My chest aches.“I’d like that.”
Something softens in her face—not quite a smile, but close.A crack in the armor she’s worn for so long, I’d forgotten there was anything underneath.
“I need to get ready,” I murmur.
She nods, and I turn toward my bedroom, my steps quicker now.I change into my work clothes and grab my bag, check for my keys, my phone.The whole time, my heart won’t stop racing.She’s still here.She’s staying.She wants to stay.She made me lunch like Dad used to get.
When I come back out, she’s clearing the table, stacking plates with efficient movements.The two containers sit on the counter, waiting for me.I pick them up, holding them carefully.They’re still warm.
I pause at the door, the containers in one hand, my bag in the other.“Mamá?”She glances at me, a dish towel in her hands.“Would you...”I swallow.“Would you maybe want to go out for dinner with me?Tonight?”
She goes very still.The dish towel hangs limply in her hands, and I watch her face—the way she’s considering it, weighing it.The silence stretches.Finally, slowly, she folds the dish towel and sets it on the counter.She wipes her hands on her pants, taking her time, and when she looks at me again, there’s something different in her eyes.
“Yes,” she says.“I’d like that.”
A smile breaks across my face before I can stop it.“Okay.Good.”
“Okay.”
I open the door and hesitate.I should leave.I’m going to be late.But I linger for one more second, looking at my mother standing in my kitchen, and I feel a surge of emotion.This whole situation is fragile and terrifying, yet I’m hopeful.
“I’ll see you tonight,” I say.
“Be safe,” she replies.Still gruff.Still her.
I step outside and close the door behind me, smiling like an idiot as I walk to my car, the containers warm against my chest.My mother is staying.My mother wants to have dinner with me.My mother made me breakfast and lunch—lunch for me and my colleagues, the way she used to do for Dad.
It’s not fixed.Not even close.There’s years of damage between us—years of silence and resentment and words we’ve thrown like weapons.Years of me being invisible in my own family, of learning to survive on my own because no one else was going to take care of me.But this...This is something.This is her reaching out for the first time, really reaching, and I’m not going to waste it.
I slide into the driver’s seat, carefully placing the containers on the passenger seat, and start the engine.For the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe—just maybe—we might actually find our way back to each other.
* * *
