About how he once walked four miles in the rain to bring her medicine because she had a fever and no one else.
You read the part where she admits she was hurt when no one from his family came for you.
I thought silence meant rejection, she wrote. Now I know silence can also mean someone stole the message.
You press the paper to your mouth.
Your mother had carried her own version of abandonment.
She just carried it quietly enough that you mistook it for strength.
At the end, there is one more line.
If Mercedes ever holds your child, and if her hands are kind, let the past explain itself before you close the door.
You close your eyes.
Of course your mother would say that.
She always believed food could be reheated, shirts could be mended, and people should be given one chance to tell the truth before being judged forever.
You do not sleep.
In the morning, there is a soft knock on your door.
You do not answer immediately.
The knock comes again.
When you open it, Mercedes is standing in the hallway with a small paper bag in her hands. Her hair is neatly combed, but her eyes are swollen.
“I made conchas,” she says. “I know you may throw them away.”
