At exactly three, as though the clock had caught my thoughts, the bell rang.
The scent of chicken with mole filled every corner of the house, blending with the clean fragrance of freshly cut gardenias in the yard.
It wasn’t a banquet, but it was the best my hands could prepare for such a day. It was Mother’s Day, and my heart, weary as it was, still managed to beat with expectation.
I opened the door and saw him: Ricardo, my only son, standing there with that catalog smile he’d adopted since becoming a businessman. He wore a navy suit that seemed new, shoes polished so well the worn mosaic tiles in the hallway reflected in them like water. A step behind, holding a bag from a fancy florist, was Samantha. A white dress, manicured nails, and a sweet perfume that cut through everything like a sharp remark.
“Mom,” Ricardo said, still smiling. “Happy day.”
