The Silence That Followed
The first few days were quiet. Painfully quiet.
No visits. No calls. No laughter.
I missed them. Of course I did.
But I also felt something else. Peace.
Three days later, Lucía called. Her voice was different—soft, uncertain.
“Mom… can we talk?”
We met at a small café. Not my house. Not her house. Neutral ground.
She looked tired—not physically, but emotionally.
“I didn’t realize…” she began. Then stopped.
“No,” she corrected herself. “I just didn’t want to see it.”
I said nothing.
“You were always there,” she whispered. “So I thought… you always would be.”
I reached for her hand. “Parents are there,” I said. “But they’re not meant to disappear.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
A few days later, Javier called. Awkward. Uncomfortable. But sincere.
“I messed up,” he said. “I didn’t think… I just assumed.”
“Yes,” I replied gently. “You did.”
