For a second—a small one—she looked like the mom I remembered.
“Valentina. You finally made it.”
“Hi, Mommy,” I whispered as I crossed the room, acting as if I hadn’t been here for two hours already, trying to gain the courage to come up here.
She patted the edge of the bed and made room for me. I sank into the chair instead. I didn’t trust myself to sit on the bed—not when she looked so breakable, as if one wrong move would shatter her entirely.
“Isabel told me you’d come yesterday,” she said in a tone only a mother could pull off. “But I knew you wouldn’t.”
I winced. “Sorry. I meant to. I just ... Things got busy.”
Busy. The classic excuse. Busy with what, exactly?
She gave me a gentle look. “It’s okay,mija. You’re here now.”
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that me sitting here in this terrible plastic chair that smelled like disinfectant and despair was enough.
I knew it wasn’t.
She reached slowly toward the bedside table, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the plastic cup of water. I leaned forward and handed it to her without meeting her eye, because if I looked at her too long I’d see too much. Like how fragile she was now; how each visit seemed to chip away a little more of the mom I remembered—the mom who could silence the loudest storm inside me with the softest of sounds.
She took a slow sip. “Thank you,” she whispered.
I nodded once, quickly, glancing down at my lap, picking at a loose thread on my coat.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, and it sounded hollow even to my own ears.
She set the cup down, watching me. “Oh, the nurses are sweet. They pretend not to be annoyed when I press the button too many times. Isabel visits every day.”
I shifted uncomfortably as she gave me one of those gentle smiles—the kind moms give their kids when they’ve tried really hard to draw a picture and it turns out looking like a blob. Like, “Nice try, but we both know you can do better.”
Of course Isabel visited every day. Of course she never missed anything. Perfect Isabel, the daughter who showed up, who didn’t turn into a scared little girl every time she was faced with something hard. Isabel knew how to hold hands and how to make Mama laugh, even when the news was bad.
Isabel was brave, and I was everything else.
Mama reached forward, settling her hand gently on mine. “You know, the nurses always gossip. The things I overhear in this place ...”
I raised my eyebrows, letting a faint smile tug at my lips despite myself. “Anything good?”
Her eyes twinkled the way they used to when I was younger, back when she’d catch me sneaking home after curfew but pretend not to be mad. “Apparently, Nurse Claudia has a new boyfriend, but Nurse Teresa saw him first.”
I let out a soft laugh. “Drama.”
She squeezed my hand gently. “Reminds me of those novellas we used to watch. Remember? You and Isabel fighting over who got to sit closest, both of you yelling at the TV.”
My chest tightened. I did remember. Clearer than I wanted to. “Isabel always yelled louder,” I murmured. “She got really invested in those stories.”
Mama smiled. “And you pretended you weren’t invested at all. But I saw you, Vale. You cried every time.”
I rolled my eyes, but the ache in my chest eased a little. “I was ten, Mama. Give me a break.”
She hummed softly, and my breath caught. It was just like before. For a moment, everything felt softer. Safer.
“You were always so stubborn,” she continued gently. “Pretending you didn’t care about things. Like that puppy yourTíobrought over one Christmas—remember him?”
I did. Small, fluffy, with brown eyes that looked too big for his tiny face. I’d loved him instantly but hid in my room when they took him away. Cried for days. Lied and said I didn’t care, even though I couldn’t stop caring.
“I guess I didn’t like getting attached.”
