The torment in her eyes tears me apart, and I instantly regret my words. If not for me, Mom wouldn’t have been working in the factory that caused her to lose her mobility. Her legs will never be the same again, and she’ll never be able to stand for more than an hour without being in excruciating pain. She might not explicitly say it, but I know she blames me. If I hadn’t insisted on going to college, she wouldn’t have taken that job.
Guilt hits me square in the chest, yet there’s a hint of that same bitterness my mother just voiced blooming within me too. She may have had to sacrifice a lot for me, but I’ve done all I can to repay her.
“While your father raised his other child in pure luxury, he left us to starve,” she grumbles. “He never looked back, not even when I struggled to buy you a winter coat, or when you couldn’t afford your college tuition.”
I force a smile, my heart heavy. It’s always the same story. Her hatred for my father runs deep, and while I don’t blame her, I wish she’d move on. It’s been 21 years, and the venom she clings to is poisoning her and everything she touches. Hatred has taken more from her than my father ever did.
I sigh and force a smile as guilt articulates my next words. “But now you don’t have to work another day in your life, Mom,” I tell her softly. “I make more than enough to support both of us and Abuela for the rest of our lives.”
Luca pays me an excessively high salary, and on top of that, he’s provided me with an apartment near the office, anda car with a driver. He might be the devil incarnate, but he compensates me well for the ridiculous hours he asks me to work.
Mom nods and smiles at me, genuinely this time. “I’m proud of you,” she says, her voice soft. “I always knew you’d make it far. You inherited my intelligence, after all. You’ve had opportunities I could only dream of when I was your age.”
I look away and try to push down the tinge of resentment I feel. Just once, I’d love for her to acknowledge my success without making it all about her. I love my mother beyond words, but she was never there when I was growing up. Unlike what she seems to believe, she wasn’t the one who raised me. That was all Abuela.
Will there ever come a time that she’ll look at me and truly see me? Sometimes it feels like all I am to her is a reflection of herself. Every week, I try my hardest to spend some quality time with her, but every single time, she ends up dwelling on the past, and there’s nothing I can do to steer the conversation back to something more positive. I’m growing tired of trying, and even more so, I’m growing tired of the way I feel every time I see her.
All I ever want to do is show her my love for her, and perhaps receive a little bit of hers in return, but I end up feeling drained and discouraged every week. Every time I come home, I leave with reminders that I can’t trust anyone, and that any happiness I may find would be fleeting.
When I was younger, I was convinced she was wrong. I thought that I’d be different, and that what happened to her would never happen to me. I thought I’d find an epic love of my own, and I’d have the happiness that had always eluded me. Somewhere, someday, I’d find a place where I’d belong, where I was wanted.
For a little while, I thought I’d found just that. In the end, my mother turned out to be right. Men truly can’t be trusted, andpromises are just a string of words we put too much value on. Honor only extends as far as it’s convenient for it to, and love is a fleeting emotion.
Mom grimaces when the woman in her Telenovela is forced to admit to herself that her husband is cheating on her, and I look down at my phone, my entire body tense. I don’t think I have it in me to take more of my mother’s warnings tonight.
I clear my throat and push down the guilt I feel. “Mom,” I say hesitantly. “I need to go. Something came up at work.”
She nods instantly. “Go,” she tells me. “Your work is important. The only two things you can truly rely on are your education and your own income, Valentina.”
I stare at her for a moment. Shouldn’t that list include her, too? Shouldn’t I be able to rely on my mother too? I briefly felt bad for lying to her, but my guilt has eased a little now.
I walk up to her and press a kiss to her cheek before heading to the front door of the home she shares with my abuela, the same home I grew up in. This place should fill me with warmth and happiness, but it never has, not truly.
“Val? Are you leaving?”
I pause at the sound of Abuela’s voice. She’s leaning back against the wall in the hallway, a cup of aqua de sandía in one hand and a plastic bag in the other.
“I… yes… um, something came up at work.”
Abuela smiles at me, a knowing look in her eyes. “You have never been able to lie to me, Val.” She holds up a supermarket bag, no doubt filled with miscellaneous Tupperware. Abuela loves collecting old butter and yoghurt containers, and I can never be sure what’s inside them. Guessing before I open them has become my favorite game. “For you, Princesa. It’s still warm. Share it with that handsome boss of yours. Save him some.”
I stare at her wide-eyed. “How... how did you know I was going to the office?”
Leaving was an impulse decision. How could she possibly have known I’d do thatandhave had enough time to pack me food?
“You always hide behind your work when you’re upset.” She gives me the bag and wraps her hand over mine. “Your mother’s heart is in the right place, mi niña. She means well. She doesn’t want you to suffer the way she did, but the way she tries to protect you is all wrong. Don’t mind her, okay?”
She always knows exactly what to say to take the edge off my disappointment. “I love you, Abuelita.”
She nods. “I love you more, Val. I always will.”
I inhale shakily and hug her tightly. She looks and feels a little frailer than she used to, and it worries me. “Impossible,” I promise her. “I love you the most.”
She laughs, the sound easing the ache my mother caused. Thanks to her, I’m smiling as I get into my car, my night salvaged a little.
For a moment I wonder whether I should text my friends, Sierra and Raven, but then I think better of it. It’s ridiculous, but I feel guilty for telling my mother that I needed to work. I can’t help it. Because that’s the excuse I gave her, I now feel like I should at least do a little bit of work.
I sigh as I pull up in front of the office. The night guard greets me by name, and self-pity threatens to overwhelm me as the doors in Luca’s private elevator close. I’m twenty-eight, and I don’t have a social life outside of work. Even my two closest friends are people I know through my boss. It’s pathetic.