Then—
“¿Qué pasó, mija?”
(What happened, my daughter?)
Her voice is soft, but sharp underneath. Listening.
I swallow.
“Nada, Mamá. Estoy bien.”
(Nothing, Mom. I’m fine.)
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“Mentira.”
(That’s a lie.)
My chest tightens.
“You don’t sound like yourself,” she continues, switching into English now, her accent wrapping around the words. “Tell me.”
I lean back against the wall.
Stare at the ceiling.
“I’m just… tired.”
“Tired from what?”
I let out a slow breath.
“Everything.”
Silence.
Then, quieter?—
“I thought this is what I wanted,Mamá.”
My voice cracks just slightly.
“I worked so hard to get here. To Stanford. To D1. To all of it.”
I swallow again.
“And now I’m here and it just…,” I trail off.
“Feels what?” she presses.
“…empty.”
The word hangs there.
Heavy.
