She looked older. Tired.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Honest? I don’t know.” She stirred her coffee. “My daughter is in prison. I didn’t raise her to be this person.”
“I know.”
“Do you blame me?”
“No.”
She looked up, surprised.
“Why not?”
“Because I raised a son who stood by and let it happen. We both failed somewhere.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I keep asking myself where I went wrong.”
“Maybe we didn’t go wrong. Maybe they made their own choices.”
She reached across the table and took my hand.
“Thank you for not hating me.”
“I never hated you.”
We sat together for two hours.
And when we finally left, she hugged me tightly.
“You’re a good woman, Carmen.”
“So are you.”
One year after the airport, I did something I hadn’t planned.
I rebooked the trip.
Same cities. Same hotels. Same itinerary.
But this time, I invited someone else.
Blanca.
“Are you serious?” she asked when I called.
“Completely.”
“Carmen, I can’t let you pay for me.”
“You’re not letting me do anything. I’m inviting you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my friend. And because we both deserve to see Rome.”
