Chapter 24 #2
My heart hammers against my ribs. For a moment, I can’t speak past the lump in my throat.
All my carefully constructed walls, all my defenses against exactly this kind of moment—they’re crumbling like sand.
I’ve spent so long protecting myself, keeping everyone at a distance, that the rawness of his question leaves me exposed in a way that terrifies me.
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice catching on that single syllable.
His eyes darken, and I see something there I've never allowed myself to recognize before—a reflection of the same terrifying, exhilarating feeling that’s been building inside me for weeks. He lifts our joined hands and presses his lips to my knuckles, the gesture so tender it makes my chest ache.
Relief washes over his features, but there’s still a hint of uncertainty there. “You should know I won’t be that easy to shake off if I piss you off—which will be frequently.”
I smile at him, blinking back the unexpected moisture in my eyes. “That’s okay. I don’t plan to let go of you either.” The light turns green, and as we move forward, something shifts between us—something solid and real and a little bit terrifying. But in the best possible way.
As we get closer to my apartment, hunger starts to gnaw at my stomach. “So what should we eat?”
“What are you in the mood for?” he asks, turning onto my street.
“You pick,” I say generously. “I’m feeling magnanimous.”
“Pizza,” he says automatically. “Double cheese. And more cheese for toppings.”
“So just a heart-attack pizza.”
He gives me a grin. “Yes, please.”
I take out my phone to place the order, but as we pull up to my building, my eyes lift to the front of the building and my stomach drops like a stone.
I immediately slouch in my seat, phone all but forgotten.
“Eve?” Caleb gives me a confused look.
“My mother is there,” I whisper, horrified. “What is she doing here?”
“Your mother?” Caleb peers towards the building, and he must have seen her because he looks down at me. “Oh, crap. What do you want to do? I can turn the car around. We can go to my place if you don’t want to see her.”
I consider it. The offer is very tempting, but when I look up, she’s leaning against the pillar and she looks worn out. How long has she been waiting for me? She must know I get off at five. Has she been waiting since? I check my phone but there are no calls from her.
“I —” I hesitate. “I should go see what she wants.”
“I’ll come with you,” Caleb says quickly, but I shake my head.
“No.” My eyes meet his. “Go to your place tonight. I don’t know why she’s here but I doubt she’s here for a brief conversation.”
“Are you sure?” He looks worried.
I give him a firm smile. “I can handle her. Go home. Let me know when you get there.” I lean over to kiss him before I lose my resolve, and then hop out of the car with my bag. “See you tomorrow.”
He looks like he doesn’t want to leave me here alone, but after a few minutes, he drives off reluctantly.
Taking a deep breath, I make my way towards her.
My mother stands near the glass doors, her familiar silhouette backlit by the lobby lights.
She’s wearing her good coat—the navy one she saves for special occasions. A large bag sits at her feet.
“Mamá?”
She turns at my voice, and I catch the relief that flickers across her face before her expression becomes unreadable.
“What are you doing here?” I stare at her, wondering if I’m imagining things.
“I wanted to see you.” She looks uncertain.
“Why?”
The bluntness of my question makes her chin lift slightly. “Can’t a mother visit her daughter?”
However, her voice wavers, the lack of confidence more than obvious, and it tells me that she’s not sure whether or not she’ll be welcome.
An incredulous laugh escapes me. “Since when? Didn’t you swear never to set foot in my home? You’ve never once visited me.”
Her expression tightens. “Eve—”
“Is everything okay?” I ask, suddenly worried despite everything. “Are you sick? Is something wrong?”
“No. Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to see you.”
“You wanted to see me?” I climb up the steps to come stand before her. “You hate me. Why would you want to come see me?”
Her expression blanches. “I don’t hate you.”
“Oh.” I shrug. “Could’ve fooled me.”
We stare at each other, and her voice softens. She sounds almost miserable. “I don’t hate you, mija. I never have.”
My hand clenches into a fist around the strap of my bag, and I wish I had asked Caleb to stay so he could be a buffer between us.
It’s as if a thousand knives are shearing my heart just talking to her.
“Are you sure? Because dislike is all I’ve ever felt from you.
You’ve liked to punish me, just like Luis.
You take comfort from my misery. It’s been that way since Dad died, Mamá, and you can’t pretend any differently. ”
She looks at me, shell-shocked.
I start to walk again toward the building entrance, but she catches my arm. “Eve—”
“Go home, Mamá.” The words come out as a whisper. “I’m not ready to see you.”
Instead of letting go, her grip tightens. Then, without warning, she pulls me into a fierce hug that catches me completely off guard. Her arms wrap around me with a strength I’d forgotten she possessed, and for a moment I’m transported back to being seven years old with a scraped knee.
“I may be harsh, my Eve, but I would never hurt you. Never!” she vows against my hair, and there’s a protectiveness in her voice I haven’t heard in years.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that boy was like that.
I thought—I believed he would cherish you.
That’s all I’ve ever wanted, for someone to cherish you.
I didn’t want you to go through the hardships I did. ”
I stand there frozen in disbelief. She’s hugging me in a way she’s not done in years.
“You’re so much like me, mija. I was just trying to give you a good future.
I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.” Her voice cracks, and despite all the anger and resentment in me towards her, when my mother’s voice cracks like that, my hands clutch the back of her shirt.
The unexpected tenderness breaks something loose in my chest even when I know it shouldn’t.
My eyes are burning with unshed tears, but I hold them in. I have to.
She pulls away to look at my face, and then her thumbs wipe the two errant tears that escape. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, mija.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” I mutter, not certain whether I believe it or not but too tired to put up a fight.
“I missed you,” she says, and I can see the hurt in her eyes. “You didn’t call to argue with me. You didn’t come when you got hurt. I got worried.”
“How long have you been here?” I ask finally.
“Six. I thought you come back then.” So she’s been standing here for a couple of hours. No wonder she looks so tired.
I sigh, not knowing what to say. “Just come on up.” I pick up the heavy cloth bag at her feet, and my back nearly pops out at the weight. “Who dropped you here?”
“No one. I took the bus. And then I walked.”
“You walked, carrying this?” My eyes widen. “Mamá, you know the doctor said you’re not supposed to carry anything heavy. Your back isn’t what it used to be.”
My mother gestures dismissively with her hand. “I’m fine. My back is fine.”
I drag the bag to the stairs as I start making my way up. “What’s in this thing? Bricks?”
“Groceries,” she says matter-of-factly. “And pots and pans.”
“Of course,” I mutter, not even bothering to ask why she brought pots and pans to my place. I never know with my mother when it comes to her reasoning.
My back is close to giving out as I carry the bag up the stairs, but when I open the door to my apartment, despite everything, I feel a hint of excitement.
This is the first time she’s ever visited my home.
Under the excitement, however, is apprehension.
I keep waiting for her to say something nasty, something cruel.
“It’s beautiful.”
Her words have me swallowing. “What?”
“Your home, mija.” She glances at me with a smile. “It’s beautiful. Very elegant. It suits you.” I stare at the back of her head as she looks at some of the paintings hanging from the wall. Did my mother just praise me?
“Mamá,” I ask, slowly, fear tightening in my gut, “you’re not dying, are you?”
“What?” She gives me a confused look. “Of course not. Why would you say that?”
“Y-You’re being nice to me and praising me,” I mutter. “What else am I supposed to think?”
She flushes. “You’re my daughter. I can be proud of you if I want.”
There it is. Another—She said she was proud of me.
“Are you doing drugs?” I whisper, horrified now, my own worries long forgotten in the face of such terrifying behavior from her.
“Eve!”
“Well, what is wrong with you?!” I burst out. “Something has to be wrong. You’re not acting like yourself.”
“What are you talking about?” she snaps, frustrated. “You’ve seen me be nice to your…”
Her voice fades, realization forming in her eyes, and I continue her sentence slowly. “...to my siblings, Mamá. Not to me. What’s going on? You can tell me. I won’t say anything.”
She turns her back to me. For a moment, I think I see her shoulders shake, and when she speaks, her voice is unsteady. “Why don’t you go take a shower, mija?”
“I—Okay.” I look around frazzled. “I have juice in the fridge. I’m out of everything else, but I was going to go to the store tomorrow. If you’re hungry, I can order in, or I can take you—”
“Go shower.” Her command is absolute.
Confused, I go to my bedroom. I have a thousand questions in my head and can’t seem to find a reasonable answer to any one of them. With the door closed, I fumble with my phone, calling Marco. He picks up after the second ring.
Before he can say anything, I blurt out, “Mamá is here. In my apartment.”
Silence from the other end, and then, “And?”
“Marco, what does she want?” I can’t hide the panic in my voice.
“She wants to see you.”
“To do what?”
His voice turns gentle. “Hermanita, she regrets what she did. After the police station, she thought you would come to see her, but you never did. She is swallowing her pride and coming to you instead.”
I sink onto the bed, staring at the door. “But why?”
“Because she’s your mother?”
I wish I could say I understood him, but that statement doesn’t make sense to me. My mind is drawing a blank.
“Mamá’s a prideful woman, Eve,” Marco murmurs. “Like you. It’s not easy for her to admit her mistakes, so can you be a little kind? I know I have no right to ask it of you.”
“What mistakes?” I lay down on the bed, looking up at the ceiling.
“How she’s been treating you. I don’t think she realized how far she had pushed you away. She’s trying, Eve. If you think it’s too late…”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, swallowing hard. “I don’t know, Marco.”
“Just try if you can, Eve. You’ve been through a lot. I’m not pressuring you. Whatever you decide, I’ll respect your decision.” I say goodbye and end the call, clutching the phone to my chest.
After a few minutes, I sit up and head to the shower, and by the time I emerge from my room, wrapped in my robe with my hair still damp, the apartment smells like home.
Not my current home, but the home of my childhood—cumin and coriander, garlic and ginger, all the warm spices that used to fill our kitchen when I was young.
I pad to the kitchen and find my mother bustling around like she owns the place.
The counters are covered with ingredients I know I don’t have in my pantry.
She brought them along with her, including the fresh vegetables and the cuts of meat on my kitchen counter.
“You brought all this?” I ask, stunned. “Mamá, how much food are you cooking?”
“I’ll freeze some for you. Your fridge is empty. Don’t you cook?”
“I forgot to get groceries delivered this week. But I don’t usually get time to cook anything extravagant," I admit, tasting one of the marinades. My mouth instantly waters.
“So what do you eat?”
“Take out sometimes, or salads. Sometimes Caleb cooks.”
My mother has moved on to slicing meat now, and her hand holding the knife pauses. “Why didn’t you tell me you have no food? I would have sent you some meals.”
I don’t respond for a moment, and then I mumble, “I didn’t know you would.”
“If you had told me, I would have.” She sounds angry now, but the anger doesn’t seem to be directed at me. “You will pick up food on Sundays, or I will have one of your brothers drop it to your home.” The decision has been made for me. I don’t mind.
“Okay.” With an afterthought, I add, “Thanks.”
I watch her cook in silence. I don’t offer to help and she doesn’t ask. I pour her a class of red wine, though, and she smiles, another thing that is new.
As the meals come together, I realize they are my favorite foods. I wonder if it’s a coincidence or if she remembered. She must have seen the question in my eyes because she says quietly, “You are my child, mija. I remember what you like and dislike.”
“You never make any of this for Sunday dinners when I come, so I thought you forgot what I like,” I comment. “You’ve always remembered for everyone else.”
My mother pauses again, and her voice is strained. “I have not been a good mother to you, mija. I know.” I should feel guilty telling my own mother she’s not done a good job, but I feel numb. I don’t know how to handle this side of her.
“Sit down and eat,” she says, ladling something that smells like heaven into a bowl.
I take the bowl with shaking hands, staring down at what I realize is my favorite childhood dish—the one she used to make when I was sick or sad or just because I asked. The one I thought she’d forgotten I loved.
The first spoonful tastes like forgiveness.
The second feels like home.
By the third, my hand is shaking because I’m crying.
My mother takes the bowl from me and holds me in her arms as I sob.
I don’t know why I’m crying. The tears just don’t stop.
I’ve always held myself together so tightly, knowing there will never be anyone to catch me if I fall, knowing I cannot depend on anyone.
Until Caleb walked into my life and held me up, I’ve never had any kind of support, didn’t know I could have someone I could lean against.
But as my mother holds me, this feels different. I feel raw and exposed, vulnerable in a way I have never allowed myself to be since before my father passed. Her arms tighten around me, and for a minute, I let myself believe things will be fine, that we will be fine.