All so her children could have a future.
And now, finally, we thought it was her turn.
Her turn to live well.
Her turn to sleep peacefully.
Her turn to eat until she was full.
Her turn to be cared for.
“That’s why,” I finally said, looking at my brother and sister, “this is her time now. No more struggling. No more surviving. Mom should be living like a queen.”
I meant every word.
I had no idea that less than an hour later, we would find her in a crumbling shack, almost starving to death…
And realize that someone had been stealing the life we thought we were giving her.
You say it because you need to believe it.
Because guilt has a way of arriving early, long before truth does, and dressing itself up as confidence. So you sit in that taxi with your brother and sister, crossing familiar roads under a punishing Ecatepec sun, and you repeat the same comforting story in your head: your mother is finally resting. She is finally living the life she earned with blistered hands, swollen feet, and years of going hungry so her children could eat.
You picture her in a neat little house with cool tile floors and curtains she chose herself.
You imagine a refrigerator humming in the corner, a television always on too loudly, and a kitchen full of fruit, soup, coffee, and all the small luxuries she once denied herself without complaint. You imagine her laughing with neighbors, maybe gaining a little weight, maybe scolding the local boys for speeding down the street, maybe finally sleeping through the night without worrying about rent or school supplies. The money you and your siblings sent had to become something real. It had to.
