Page 20 of Outspoken

“Oh, no. Nothing, mijo,” she says with her sweetest grin. “I love all my son does for me.”

I sit on the coffee table, pushing the clutter aside. Then, I loop part of an exercise band under my foot and hand her the other end. “Hmm, is that so? 'Cause it sounded like you called these bands the devil. Yesterday, you said they could burn in hell.”

She smiles innocently. “Oh no, I would never.”

I laugh and guide her through a few quick sets to keep up her strength. I help her with these exercises regularly and get her walking outside, which helps reduce her pain. But she always fights me about it.

When we're done, she swallows anti-nausea pills and then requests cake. I bring her a small piece—only a few bites—which causes her to grumble and swear under her breath.

Narrowing her eyes at the cake, she says, “Tan pequeña.”

“Don’t inhale that,” I warn, settling into our gray couch and staring at her altar on the mantle.

In the middle of the altar stands an image of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, the patron saint of Mexico, illuminated by several votive candles and surrounded by paper flowers. The mantle also holds pictures of our family—both living and deceased—along with a stuffed bear. The bear was a gift my dad gave my mom when they first started dating, and I've always argued that it doesn't belong on the altar. I never met him because he disappeared shortly after I was born. He's not part of our family.

“How was the party?” Mom asks after taking a bite. “Oh, this is nice cake.”

I shrug. “The party was good. Daniel loved the smartwatch I got him, and Maribel yelled at me for spoiling him.”

“You do.”

“What's the point of being a tío if I can't be cool and spoil my nieces and nephews?” I cross my arms, too much bitterness in my words. “Not like I have my own kids.”

Mom finishes her few bites of cake and then sips the cold peppermint tea she keeps in a water bottle. “Ay, are you pouting again?”

I stare at the beige tile that fills the living room. “I'm not pouting.” I probably am pouting.

“Is it Carlos? Be happy for your brother.”

“I’m very happy for him. It’s not Carlos. My heart is tired.”

She pets my head. “Ay, my poor hijo. It’s ‘cause you give it away too easily. You have your own path. It’s okay. Trust the greater plan and you’ll be fine. Just have faith.”

My lips form a frown, and I glare at her bottle of peppermint tea—which she now drinks by the gallons.Faith. I remember the day I sat with Mom in the doctor's office and he told us about the stomach cancer. She thought she didn't understand right because of his thick accent, so I repeated the doctor’s words in Spanish—her own son delivering devastating news.

My faith is running thin.

Her cough echoes through the room, her lips pressing together in a tight line. My caregiver sixth sense kicks in, and I hurry to grab a small bucket and some paper towels.

She sets the bucket near her feet, waving me away. “Stop fussing,” she says. “My stomach loves this cake. I'm fine. Sit down.” After I fall back onto the couch, she says, “You are only sick from wanting love, just like me. Sorry I passed it on. I guess a family curse.”

I give a weak smile. “Well, thanks.”

“But I know my path was to love with my whole heart and then to lose love. I'm grateful I got to love. Well, my first husband more than that other one.”

I cross my arms again and clench my jaw, not wanting to think about my dad and what he did to her. “How can you be grateful when my dad abandoned us? And then Carlos’ dad left? Both men didn't treat you or their family right.”

She pats my knee with her bony hand. “I have you and your brothers and sister. I knew love for a time with two men and that love continues with you. With my family, I experience so much love, and I'm grateful for my blessings, even if the plan for my life wasn't how I thought. That's why you need faith, mijo. It will all work out, but it may be different from your dreams. It's a greater plan, a wiser plan, one you won't see clearly until you're old like me. But don't get old. It's bad.”

She smiles.

I can't do the same.

It's heartbreaking to see how much she has suffered from pain these past few years. I remember when she had infinite energy to chase all of us around, breaking up fights and giving us everything we needed to grow up well-adjusted and happy. Being a single mom working multiple low-paying jobs must have been hell, yet I never once felt unloved or neglected.

My favorite memories are of her gathering us in the kitchen every Sunday to meal prep for the week. We'd spend the entire day cooking delicious-smelling food as a family, my siblings and I all sneaking samples when Mom wasn’t looking. If Lupita was around, she and Mom would crank up the music and sing, getting us all dancing.

Now, Mom struggles to walk to the mailbox.

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