“It’s going. Frustrating but satisfying.” I paused, debating how much to share. “Every document I read makes me angrier. They’re doing to these families exactly what they did to us.”
My mother’s hands stilled in the dough. When she looked up, her expression was complicated. “And you’re going to stop them.”
“I’m going to try.”
“You’ll do more than try. You’re brilliant and determined and you understand what’s at stake.” She returned to crimping empanada edges with practiced movements. “Your father would be so proud of you. The way you took something terrible and turned it into something that helps people.”
My throat felt tight. I focused on stirring, letting the repetitive motion ground me. “I hope so.”
“I know so.” She reached over and squeezed my hand, flour dusting my skin. “Now tell me the rest. What else is happening in your life besides work? You’re young and beautiful and brilliant. There must be something good.”
The shift in her tone was subtle, but I caught it anyway. I glanced up and found her watching me with that expression mothers got when they were about to ask questions you didn’t necessarily want to answer.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing. I’m just wondering if there’s anyone special in your life.” She paused, rolling dough with careful attention. “Do you have someone? A man who makes you smile the way you’re smiling right now?”
There it was.
“Maybe,” I admitted.
Her hands stilled. She looked up at me with eyes that were bright with hope. “Maybe?”
“There’s someone. It’s new. I don’t know what it is yet.”
“But you like him.”
“I do.” The admission felt bigger out loud, more real. “He’s smart and kind, and he makes me feel like wanting something beyond survival isn’t selfish.”
My mother set down her rolling pin and wiped her hands on her apron, then reached over and cupped my face. “Mija, wanting things has never been selfish. You’re allowed to have a life. You’re allowed to be happy.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Her thumb brushed my cheek. “Because sometimes I think you forgot how to want things just for yourself.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe I’d spent so long being careful, being practical, being the one who held everything together that I’d forgotten what it felt like to just want something because it made me happy.
“He took me to dinner on Saturday,” I said quietly. “Brought me flowers. These beautiful peonies that are still sitting on my kitchen table making me smile every time I walk in.”
“That’s lovely.”
“It was perfect.” I thought about the restaurant, the wine, the way Archie had looked at me across the table like I was the only person in the room.
My mother’s smile was soft. “He sounds wonderful.”
“He is. I think. It’s still early.” I paused, debating how much to share. “At the end of the night, we were sitting in his car and I was so certain he was going to kiss me.”
“But he didn’t?”
“He almost did. Got close enough that I could feel his breath… and then he just pulled back.” I grabbed the spoon and stirred with more force than necessary.
“Maybe he’s being respectful. Taking things slow.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m an idiot who’s building this up in my head and he’s just being nice.” I set down the spoon before I did damage to the bowl.
“You’re not an idiot,” my mother said firmly. “You’re a woman who likes someone and that’s completely normal. Stop overthinking it.”
“Overthinking is literally what I do.”
