Page 49 of Careless Whisper

I didn’t realize how much noise I carried inside me until it was gone.

I spent my entire vacation in San Miguel with my parents. I’d barely gotten through the airport at Querétaro before my mother threw her arms around me like it had been years. My dad waved like I was a returning soldier and not a nurse taking a much-needed break.

We didn’t talk about Seattle right away or the weight of everything I’d been dragging behind me like a busted wheel.

We just…lived.

We drank too much coffee. My mom made it in her old moka pot with cinnamon sticks and orange peel, the way she’d done when I was a teenager, staying up late, cramming for finals.

We took slow walks through El Jardín, wandering past bougainvillea-covered walls and cobbled streets.

We got fresh bread and pastries from the bakery down the street.

My dad cooked comfort food to heal my soul—chicken pozole and tortilla Española.

In the mornings, I sat on the terrace with a book I barely read and let the sun hit my face.

Neither of my parents asked me why I was on a suddenholiday, why I looked so tired, or why I cried once in a while for no good reason. But they gave methatlook—the one that said, “We know you’re not okay, but we’ll wait for you to say it.“

On day four, Mama told me that I didn’t have to go back to Seattle if I didn’t want to.

“We’re opening the new clinic in two months. You could help run it. Or the mobile program. You could have a real impact here if you want,” she said, gently tearing off a piece of pan dulce.

My parents and grandparents always told me that I didn’t have to work for money, but I had to do work that gave me purpose.

They were also insistent that if I didn’t like what I was doing, I should extricate myself immediately and find a newpurpose.

“Your mental health is not up for discussion, ever,”G’Mum Lancaster said.

“You just come home, and I’ll fatten you up,”Abuela used to say when she was alive.

My mother’s father, who had run Lancaster Bank, a family business, told me that I should do whatever I wanted to do as long as it didn’t give me an ugly feeling on Sunday afternoons.

“That ulcer…that’s the thing that tells you if you’re happy or not; that’s the alarm bell you need to pay attention to.”

Allmy alarm bells were going off. I used to love working at Harper Memorial until Elias…well, I even liked it with him, but since he hired Maren, it was game over for me.

It pissed me off that he had hired her right after we’d had sex, right after I thought we’d…be somethingagainbecause he said he wanted a beginning with me.

AndMaren was engaged to him, according to Maren at least. Elias didn’t lie, so I knew he hadn’t proposed to her, but still, he must’ve given her permission to mouth off the way she had been—he must have signed off on her torturing me.

This was his department—there was no way Maren could file a complaint without him knowing about it.

I looked at my mother, who was waiting expectantly for me to respond.

It would be so easy to stay. The work matteredhere, and the patients were grateful. The team was small and diligent. No one would be waiting to ambush me in the hallway.

No Elias. No Maren. No ghosts.

“There’s a part of me that wants to,” I admitted finally. “But it feels like quitting…like running away.”

Mama’s eyes filled with quiet affection. “You want to talk about it?”

I breathed out softly, hesitating before responding. “It’s gonna be a‘Mama, there was a boy’sort of conversation.”

Mama lounged back on her dining chair with a smirk. “Spill the tea,mija.” And then she held up a hand. “I just need to ask Papa to join in.”

I arched a brow, amusement flickering in my gaze. “You both have been waiting for me to…ah…spill the tea?”

---