– Thanks, son. Come in, come in. The mole’s already ready.

The furniture was old, certainly, but spotless; crochet covers guarded the armchair edges from wearing further. I like believing everything has its place, that even though life had stripped me of things—his father, his strength, my once-nimble hands for sewing—the house remained a small homeland I still commanded.

We hadn’t yet sat when, in a quiet tone that pierced me like a needle, my son blurted:

– Are you enjoying the seven thousand, Mom?

Seven thousand. He hadn’t counted bills, hadn’t signed papers. I had received nothing.

“Seven thousand?” I asked.

Ricardo and Samantha exchanged a look. That fleeting glance couples use when hiding something, as though conversing silently.

“Yes, Mom,” he said, brow furrowed.

“The seven thousand dollars I transferred three months ago.”

My stomach dropped. Three months. I’d been selling tamales on Sundays for gas. Three months stretching pesos, patching old clothes to save money.

– Son… —I started, but Samantha cut in.

“Didn’t it arrive?” she asked.

– Impossible! I spoke directly with the bank! They said it was deposited into your account!