“I feel empty. Still.”
The silence on the other end changes.
Not absence.
Weight.
My mom doesn’t answer right away.
I can hear her set something down.
The brush.
The water.
The sound of work pausing.
Then—
“Escúchame bien, mija.”
Listen to me carefully, sweetheart.
Her voice is different now.
Not just my mother.
Something deeper.
Something I don’t hear often.
“You know you have a different father than your brother and sister.”
My breath catches.
I sit up slowly.
“Yes, mamá.”
I’ve always known that.
But we don’t talk about it.
We never talk about it.
The past is something she keeps locked tight. Just like why her marriage to my step dad didn’t end well and we never see him.
“I never told you the truth,” she says.
Something in my chest tightens.
Hard.
“Why now?” I whisper.
Another pause.
Then—
