That night, our parents’house smells like home cooking and laundry detergent. Mom’s in the kitchen, Tupperware army already in formation: arroz, beans, chicken, tortillas wrapped in a towel. Hospital food is an insult, and from the looks of it, she’s declared war. The TV is on low in the corner, some telenovela murmuring dramatic music at the walls.
I come in through the sliding door, drop my keys in the little bowl by instinct, and lean in the doorway. For a second, I just watch her. The way she moves—efficient, a little angry at the world, a little extra rough with the spoon as she stirs.
“Smells good,” I say.
She startles, then relaxes when she sees it’s me. “Mijo,” she says, hand on her chest. “No hagas eso.You’re going to give me a heart attack coming in like a ghost.”
I walk over and kiss her cheek. “Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t mean to go all stealth mode.”
My mother studies my face for signs of collapse. She’s subtle about it, but I know her tells, the flick of her eyes to my shoulders, the crease between her brows smoothing when she decides I’m not actively bleeding.
“You ate?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I lie automatically, then stop myself. “Actually, no. Coffee and a donut with a side of anxiety. I’ll make a plate in a sec.”
“Hm,” she says, unimpressed. “Sit. I’ll serve you.”
“Mamá—”
She gives me the look. The one that has shut me up since I was a mouthy third grader. “Siéntate, Miguel.”
I sit.
Putting a plate in front of me, she overloaded it in a way only Mexican moms can justify. Mountains of rice, beans, shredded chicken in salsa, and two tortillas on the side. My stomach growls even though I still feel like I swallowed a brick.
Leaning on the counter across from me, with her arms crossed, watching me take the first few bites.
Only then does she ask, “How’s Caleb?”
“Sleepy,” I say around a mouthful. “Pretty out of it when I checked in with him. But he’s… there. Talking some. Angry at himself. Scared. All the hits.”
Her eyes soften. “And you?”
I stare at my fork. “Also all the hits,” I say. “Luis and I did the ‘I’m not God’ tango again. We made a crisis plan 2.0. I didn’t throw the legal pad at him, so that’s progress.”
Her mouth twitches. “No lo puedo creer,” she murmurs. “You? Not dramatic?”
“Rude,” I say. “Accurate, but rude.”
We eat in silence for a minute. The food tastes like something other than cardboard, which feels like a miracle.
“I’m thinking about taking some time off,” I say finally, staring at a smear of salsa on my plate. “Or at least cutting hours. Being more available while he’s… doing all this. Inpatient. Then IOP. I don’t know how much time he’s going to be at the hospital versus home, but I… I want to be there. Without face-planting off a ladder because I haven’t slept.”
Mom hums, the sound low and considering. “What were you thinking?” she asks.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “Drop to four days instead of five. Or ask to be kept off the high-voltage, high-risk jobs for a while. My head’s not… fully in it right now. Not the way it should be. That’s not safe.”
“That’s wise,” she says. “And?”
“And…” I roll my shoulders, the words feeling too big. “Ask you if you can be backup. For him. For me. On days I can’t be at the hospital, or when I need to go home and sleep but don’t want him alone.”
Her eyes flash. “Of course,” she says immediately. “You don’t even have to ask. I already told him—anytime,mijo. I’ll sit there and pray and boss the nurses around if I have to.”
Relief washes through me so fast I sag forward a little. “Gracias,” I say. “I just… I don’t want to assume. You have your own life. Work. Church. Dad?—”
She snorts. “Ashton can feed himself for a few days,” she says. “He will survive with takeout or, God forbid, frozen meals. He is a grown man. You boys”—she gives me a look—“are where we put the priority right now.”
The lump in my throat comes back. I push rice around with my fork.
