“Good. You shouldn’t.”
We walked to a nearby café and sat outside in the sun.
“Blanca, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you still love her?”
She looked down at her coffee.
“Yes. She’s my daughter. But I don’t like who she became. And I don’t know if I’ll ever understand why she did what she did.”
“Have you visited her?”
“Once. She spent the entire time blaming everyone else. You. Javier. The judge. Me.” Blanca’s voice hardened. “She still doesn’t think she did anything wrong.”
“Will you go back?”
“I don’t know. My therapist says I don’t owe her anything. But she’s still my child.”
I reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
“Whatever you decide, I’m here.”
She smiled through tears.
“You’re a better friend than I deserve.”
“No. I’m exactly the friend you deserve.”
That summer, Javier started bringing someone to Sunday dinners.
Her name was Ana.
She was a teacher. Quiet. Kind. She laughed easily and asked thoughtful questions.
The first time he brought her, I saw the nervousness in his eyes.
“Mom, this is Ana.”
I shook her hand.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too, Mrs. Ríos. Javier talks about you all the time.”
I glanced at my son.
He smiled shyly.
Over dinner, I watched them together.
The way he listened when she spoke.
The way she touched his arm gently when he got anxious.
There was softness between them. Respect.
