Chapter 18

The pod arrived early the next morning, just as scheduled—one of those mobile storage units, dropped off in the parking lot like a giant white shoebox. I stood there with my coffee in hand, watching the delivery guy maneuver it into place with practiced ease. As soon as it was settled and locked, I went back inside and let the girls know the real work was about to begin.

We packed like pros. Every box was labeled, every fragile item wrapped with care. It was efficient, almost surgical. Luz and Marisol tackled the kitchen while Isa and I focused on books, electronics, and odds and ends. We left the big furniture—the bed, sofa, table—for tomorrow morning. No sense spending the night on the floor. By late afternoon, we’d stacked the pod full with everything short of our last night’s essentials. It felt like we’d earned a breather.

That’s when I called my mom.

I realized that I hadn’t seen her in more than two months. The last time we’d spoken in person was a week or so before I left for Brownsville—neither of us knowing what kind of spiral was about to hit. Our only contact in the meantime had been that quick phone call the other day. My fingers hesitated over the “Call” button, but I hit it before I could talk myself out of it.

She answered quickly. “Brendan?”

“Hey, Mom.”

There was a moment of silence on her end. “You’re in town now?”

“Yeah. We got in yesterday.”

“We?”

“Yeah, like I said earlier. The three girls came with me to help pack everything up.” It seemed like she might have forgotten that little detail. Or, more likely, she was hoping I’d show up by myself.

“I see.” Another pause. “Well, would you like to come by here?”

I looked around the stripped-down apartment, boxes stacked like towers of memory. “I was actually going to ask if you wanted to come by here. It’s ... pretty empty. Just the basics. But we were thinking of making dinner.”

She hesitated again, but then said, “All right. I’ll come to you.”

“Okay. Just know it won’t be fancy. The table’s still here, though,” I added, trying to lighten things.

“I don’t mind.”

I hung up and turned to the girls. “My mom’s coming here for dinner.”

Luz glanced up from where she was organizing the pantry leftovers. “All right. What should we make?”

Marisol clapped her hands together. “Something simple but comforting.”

Isa raised an eyebrow. “Spaghetti?”

“Too easy,” Luz said. “Let’s do tacos. With homemade guac and rice.”

“Sold,” I said. “She’ll love it. Come on, Luz. You and me—grocery run.”

We hit the store and moved fast, tossing tortillas, veggies, chicken, spices, and a few impulse desserts into the cart. Luz added a small bouquet of grocery store flowers without saying anything—just gave me a sly smile.

Back at the apartment, the kitchen came alive. Marisol took over the stove like a general directing troops. Isa started dicing tomatoes. Luz mashed avocados with lime and salt, humming quietly. I set the table and tried not to be in the way. It felt, once again, like family. No, it wasn’t the kind I grew up with—but something real. Something I wanted to last.

And any minute now, my mother was going to walk through that door.

She arrived right on time—her usual style. I heard the knock and opened the door to see her standing there with that polite, slightly hesitant smile she always wore when unsure of the terrain. I stepped forward and hugged her. She was smaller than I remembered, maybe because I’d grown in ways that had nothing to do with height.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said, her voice thick with emotion she was trying to keep in check. “You look...” She tilted her head, studying me. “Thinner.”

I laughed. “Didn’t you already tell me that on the phone after the TV interview?”

Her smile transformed into something more real, a bit of sadness in it. But before either of us could dwell on that too long, I motioned inside. “Come in. I want you to meet the girls.”

They stood from the table as we entered, each of them greeting her with warm smiles that were somehow equal parts respectful and authentic. I introduced them one by one. “This is Marisol, Isa, and Luz.”

“It’s such a pleasure to meet you all,” my mom said, smoothing her hands down the front of her blouse like she was steadying herself. “I watched the interview, of course. You all handled yourselves so well. Such grace and composure.”

“Thank you,” Isa replied, softer than usual. “We were just trying to speak from the heart.”

“And ... thank you for taking care of my son,” my mom added, voice quivering just slightly.

There was a pause—a brief, silent exchange of glances between the girls—and then Isa spoke again. “He took care of us too. We were a team.”

I felt myself exhale a little. So far, so good. She wasn’t exactly at ease, but she was handling it. She was trying. That was more than I’d hoped for.

The three of them headed back into the kitchen, and I filled her in on the move so far. We didn’t really get into any touchy topics—I was still gauging the situation. I heard a utensil drop in the kitchen, clanging on the floor, and I decided to poke my head in for a second.

“I’m going to go check on dinner,” I said. “Give me just a second.” I gave my mom’s arm a quick squeeze before ducking into the kitchen.

The kitchen was full of clatter and delicious smells—seasoned chicken sizzling in a pan, cilantro being chopped, tortillas warming on a skillet. I jumped in to help but then got distracted organizing plates or napkins—some small task I probably invented to keep my hands busy.

After a few minutes, a little longer than I’d anticipated, I wandered back out to the living room to check on her, expecting to find her quietly waiting or maybe looking at her phone.

But what I saw stopped me cold.

Luz and my mom were sitting side by side, speaking in low voices. It wasn’t animated or loud—it wasn’t even obviously emotional. But it was intimate. Calm. Real. My mom was leaning in slightly, listening with the kind of attention she usually reserved for Relief Society meetings or her dearest friends. Luz wasn’t saying much, but whatever she was offering—whether it was stories or questions or just her steady presence—it had disarmed my mom in a way I hadn’t thought possible.

I stood there for a second too long.

Marisol passed behind me, caught my expression, and smirked. “I knew it,” she whispered. “Luz has the exact temperament for your mom. Sweet and sincere, but not pushy. She’s like chamomile tea. Impossible not to like.”

I just nodded, heart a little too full for words, and ducked back into the kitchen to give them more time.

Dinner was smooth. The food was fantastic, and my mom was effusive with her praise. She asked for seconds. Complimented the rice. Said something about how my dad would’ve loved the guacamole—something I hadn’t heard her say in years. There was laughter. There was even comfort. She wasn’t completely at ease, but she wasn’t defensive either. That was more than I could’ve asked for.

When it came time to say goodbye, she hugged each of the girls individually, lingering a little longer with Luz. Her eyes were damp. Mine were too.

“Please keep in touch,” she said, her voice catching a little as she hugged me. “Don’t go off the grid again.”

“I’ll try not to,” I said, giving her a smile. “You know where to find me now.”

Luz stepped forward, holding out the small bouquet of grocery store flowers we’d bought earlier. “These are for you. From all of us.”

“Oh—thank you.” My mom took them carefully, like they were more than just flowers. Luz also held out a piece of paper with her number scribbled on it in neat handwriting.

“In case you ever want to talk,” Luz said, gently. “Any time.”

My mom looked down at the note, then folded it precisely and tucked it into her purse like it was something valuable.

“Thank you,” she said again, quieter this time. “Really.”

One more round of hugs, and she was out the door.

I closed it behind her, leaned against it for a second, and looked at Luz, who was already clearing dishes like nothing had happened. But something had. Something huge.