“Eighteen. Ah…he’s older than me.”
“How much older?” Mama asks, curious.
“He’s forty-two.”
“Ah, that’s nothing.”
“Am I making a mistake, Mama?”
I hear some sounds on the other end of the line, and then Mama’s steady voice comes through, “Mistakes are part of life,mi corazón?*. Maybe it’s a mistake, maybe it isn’t. Who knows? Time will tell. What matters is that you live. No hiding, no holding back, no compromising who you are. You live your life, and you live it fully.”
I close my eyes, letting her words sink in.
“But what if it hurts later?” I whisper.
“Then it hurts later,” she says flatly. “You deal with the bad when it comes. Don’t punish yourself before it even arrives. Don’t waste joy because you’re afraid of pain.”
I swallow hard, tears burning. “I wish you were here.”
“I’m always with you,mija.” I can hear her smile through the phone. “And I want you to remember something:regret is heavier than heartbreak.”
The line goes quiet, except for her steady breathing on the other end, anchoring me.
I glance back into the apartment, to theshadowed bedroom where Gustave sleeps. I feel both fear and hope—entwined together.
“I have to think about this, Mama.”
“If you must.” Mama chuckles. “But, can I tell you a secret?”
“Si.”
“You already know what you want to do.”
She’s not wrong.
We talk a little more about the new jewelry she’s designing, the boy that Marisol wants to date (but won’t because she only goes out with boysafterfinals), and how Papi is pulling his hair out (he doesn’t have a lot left) because his servers are getting pregnant one after the other.
“He saysMi Tierrais fertile,” she jokes.
Mi Tierra is Papi’s restaurant, and the people who work there have been with him through thick and thin. Even during the pandemic, Papi paid everyone from savings because “that’s what you do for family.”
After the call ends, I stand still, the phone warm in my hand, the air cool on my skin. Paris stretches around me, vast and shimmering, as if daring me to take her in.
Behind me, the door creaks. I turn.
Barefoot, tousle-haired, Gustave steps out onto the balcony.
He’s only wearing his boxers, and the sight of him—unarmored, drowsy-eyed—makes my heart race.
“You disappeared,” he murmurs, voice still husky with sleep.
“I needed a drink of water.” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to.
He studies me for a beat, then slides his arms around my waist from behind, pulling my back against his chest. His warmth seeps into me, grounding me more than the phone call, more than the city lights.
“Come back to bed,chérie,” he whispers into my hair.
Mama’s words echo.Live fully. No regrets.
