“I gathered.”
Then she said something I did not expect.
“Thank you for not leaving him to his stupidity.”
Diego groaned.
“Aunt Patricia.”
She shrugged.
“What? You were stupid. Expensively stupid, apparently.”
For the first time, Tomás laughed.
A real laugh.
Not charming.
Not defensive.
Real.
That meeting did something the repaired SUV, the job, the payments, and the apologies had not done.
It brought Diego’s mother back into the family as a person, not a weapon.
Her name had been Lucía.
She loved spicy candy.
She sang badly but loudly.
She once crashed Tomás’s motorcycle into a mailbox and blamed the mailbox.
She wanted Diego to learn piano, not because he was talented, but because she thought music made children less lonely.
Diego listened to every story like he was drinking water after years of salt.
Later that night, he knocked on my bedroom door.
Tomás was asleep.
I was reading.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Come in.”
He stood by the door.
“Did you hate my mom?”
The question startled me.
“No. I never knew her.”
“Did you hate that I missed her?”
My heart softened.
“No. I hated that missing her made you want to hurt me.”
He nodded slowly.
“I think I thought if I liked you, I was betraying her.”
“I know.”
“Was I?”
“No.”
His eyes filled.
“Are you sure?”
I set the book down.
“Diego, love is not a chair. Someone else sitting down doesn’t mean your mother has nowhere to be. She has her place. I have mine. They are not the same.”
He wiped his face quickly.
“That was actually good.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
I smiled.
He hesitated.
Then said, “Good night, Mariana.”
“Good night, Diego.”
At the door, he stopped.
read more in next page
