At three o’clock, as if the clock had settled with my memories, the bell rang. My hands were wet from rinsing the rice, and my apron, stained with mole, stuck to my hips as I hurriedly dried it. The scent of chicken and mole had drifted into every corner of the house, mingling with the clean fragrance of freshly cut gardenias in the front yard. It wasn’t a feast, but it was the best my hands could offer for a day like this. It was Mother’s Day, and my heart, though tired, still knew how to beat with enthusiasm.

I opened the door and saw him: Ricardo, my only son, standing on the threshold with that catalog smile he learned to wear when he became a businessman. He was wearing a dark blue suit that looked like new, and his shoes so bright that the hallway, with its worn mosaic, reflected in them like a puddle. Behind him, a step further back and with a bag from an expensive florist, came Samantha. White dress, perfect nails, sweet perfume that imposed itself as a strong opinion. They hugged me, each in their own way: he tightly, as if he wanted to squeeze the past; she with a calculated touch, measuring the distance.

“Mom,” Ricardo said, still smiling. “Happy day.”

“Thank you, son. Come in, come in. The mass is already thick.

They entered the living room, the same one where he learned to read, where he threw his backpacks, where he cried the first time he fought with a friend. The furniture is old, yes, but clean; the edges of the armchairs are covered with crochet so that they don’t wear out anymore. I like to think that everything has its place, that although life has taken things away from me —from his father, the strength, the agile hands to sew—, the house is still a small homeland under my command.

We hadn’t sat down when, with a soft voice that brought a seriousness that pierced me like a pin, my son blurted out:

“Are you enjoying the seven thousand, Mom?”

I was stunned, ladle in the air, mole dripping in slow motion back into the saucepan

The ladle fell into the pot with a dull splash. The sweet and spicy aroma of the mole mixed with a metallic taste that rose from my throat. Seven thousand. I hadn’t counted bills, I hadn’t signed papers. I hadn’t received anything.

“Seven thousand?” I asked, my voice lower than I would have liked.

Ricardo and Samantha looked at each other. That quick look couples share when they know something you don’t, like they speak a secret language.

“Yes, Mom,” he said, barely frowning. “The seven thousand dollars I sent you three months ago.

My stomach shrank. Three months. I had been selling tamales on Sundays for three months to pay for gas. Three months stretching every peso, sewing my old clothes so I wouldn’t spend.

“Son…” I began, but Samantha interrupted me.

“Didn’t they reach you?” she said, in a tone too innocent to be sincere.

I shook my head. My son ran his hand through his hair, frustrated.

“It can’t be! I spoke directly to the bank! They told me they deposited it in your account!”

My heart skipped a beat. The only account I had was the one that helped me open… him. Thomas. The friendly neighbor who took me to the market when my knees hurt, who told me “Doña María, I’ll help you with that”, who taught me how to use the ATM. He had my trust… and my card.

A shiver ran down my spine.

“Mom, who else did you give your information to?” Ricardo asked, with a harshness I had never heard from him before.

Tears blurred my vision. I remembered every smile from Tomás, every shopping bag he carried for me, every conversation in which he told me not to worry, that he would take care of me.

—To Thomas—I whispered, barely audible.

Ricardo stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. Samantha followed him, phone in hand.

“Let’s go talk to that man,” Ricardo said, without looking at me.

I froze. Outside, the setting sun filtered through the curtains, painting everything orange, as if the day wanted to warn us that the calm was about to be broken.

Ten minutes later, the door slammed shut behind them, leaving me alone with the echo of my ragged breath. I sat down in the armchair where he, my boy, had read his first book, and there, amidst crochet and memories, I waited.

It wasn’t long before the sound of screams came from the street. My heart raced. I looked out the window and saw Ricardo holding Tomás by the collar of his shirt. The neighbor who had once smiled at me now had terrified eyes. Samantha was recording with her phone.

“Give my mother back the money, you bastard!” my son roared, and in his voice there was something new: the rage of a child who was tired of seeing his mother suffer.

Tomás stammered, shook his head, but his gaze betrayed him: pure guilt. People were starting to come out of their houses, gossip spreading faster than the wind.

“Call the police!” Samantha shouted.

I couldn’t move. Everything was spinning around me: the lost money, the betrayal of a friend, the fury of a son who had sworn that I would never cry again.

And in the midst of that chaos, as I heard the sirens approaching, I felt something strange: a cold calm, as if everything were falling into place. My boy was no longer a boy. And I… I was no longer alone.