"Mijo!" She was down the steps and pulling me into a hug before I could say a word. "Too thin. You're not eating enough."
"Mamá, I'm fine?—"
"And this must be Ava." My mother released me and turned her full attention to the woman beside me. For a moment, she only looked, taking in Ava's nervous smile, her careful posture, the flowers clutched in her hands.
Then she pulled Ava into a hug as fierce as the one she'd given me.
"Thank you," my mother said, her voice thick. "For making my son so happy. I haven't seen him like this in years."
"I—" Ava looked at me over my mother's shoulder, slightly overwhelmed. "He makes me happy, too."
"Good. That's how it should be." My mother pulled back, held Ava at arm's length to study her face. "You're beautiful. And a doctor! My son told me. Saving people every day."
"I try."
"She's modest too." My mother beamed. "Come inside, come inside. Dinner is almost ready. Roberto! They're here!"
My father appeared in the doorway, moving slower than he used to, his hair grayer than I remembered. But his eyes were sharp as ever, taking in everything—the way I stood close to Ava, the way her hand found mine without looking.
"Papá, this is Ava. Ava, my father, Roberto."
My father extended his hand. Ava shook it.
"Dr. Rothwell," he said. "It's good to finally meet you."
"Please, call me Ava."
"Ava." He nodded slowly. "Brian tells me you work in the emergency room. Difficult work."
"It can be. But rewarding."
"And you grew up in Manhattan? Upper East Side?"
I tensed. My father wasn't the type to be impressed by money or status—if anything, he was suspicious of it. Years of working construction had taught him that the people with the most often gave the least.
But Ava just smiled. "I did. But I left when I was eighteen. Put myself through medical school."
Something changed in my father's expression. Respect, maybe. Recognition.
"Good," he said. "A person should earn their own way." He stepped back, gestured toward the house. "Come in. Elena's been cooking all day. If we don't eat soon, she'll start force-feeding us."
Dinner was everything I'd expected—loud, chaotic, full of my mother pressing second and third helpings onto everyone's plates. My father asked Ava about her work, her training, andher plans. My mother asked about how we met, how long we'd been together, and whether we'd thought about children.
"Ma," I groaned.
"What? I'm just asking. I'm not getting any younger, mijo. I want grandchildren before I'm too old to chase them."
Ava laughed—actually laughed, the tension finally draining from her shoulders. "We haven't discussed it yet. But... someday. Maybe."
Her face transformed into pure joy.
After dinner, Ava helped my mother with the dishes while my father and I sat on the back porch, watching the sun set over the neighborhood.
"She's good for you," my father said.
"I know."
"Different from the other one. The one who left."
