Because it is strong.
You stand.
“I need to go.”
Mercedes reaches one hand toward you, then stops herself.
“Please take the letter.”
You look at it.
“I don’t know if I want anything from you.”
She nods as if she expected that.
Then she places the photograph on top of the envelope and slides both toward you.
“You don’t have to want me,” she says. “But you deserve him.”
You stare at the young man’s face.
Gabriel Rivera.
Your father.
Dead before he knew you existed.
Loved you before he knew your name.
You take the envelope.
You do not take the photograph.
Not yet.
When you leave, Mercedes does not follow.
She simply sits in her chair with both hands empty, looking suddenly older than she ever has.
Back in your apartment, Mateo cries for almost an hour.
He has been fed. Changed. Rocked. Burped. Held. Nothing works.
You know what he wants.
He wants the old woman next door who sings to him in a soft voice and taps his back in a rhythm your exhausted arms never learned.
That makes you angry all over again.
At her.
At yourself.
At Mateo’s mother for leaving.
At your own mother for dying before she could explain. At Gabriel for dying before he could choose you. At Julián, a dead man you never met, for locking your life inside his pride.
Finally, Mateo falls asleep on your chest.
You sit in the dark and finish your mother’s letter.
She writes about Gabriel’s laugh.
About how he used to leave quarters in vending machines for strangers.
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.
