That silence was worse than any words.

“We give her ten thousand pesos every month,” Javier continued. “And then there’s the food, electricity, water… everything adds up. We’re not rich, Mariana.”

I stayed in the hallway, holding the sweater against my chest.

I didn’t know whether to leave or stay.

“She’s my mother…” Mariana finally said, quietly.

“I know,” Javier replied. “But this is our life too. Sometimes I feel like we don’t have space anymore. Everything revolves around her.”

That sentence pierced me like a needle.

“Everything revolves around her.”

I had never wanted to be a burden to anyone in my life.

Least of all to my own daughter.

I stood there for a few more seconds, my heart pounding. Then I returned to my room without making a sound.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I sat on the bed, staring at the window. From the high floor of the building, thousands of city lights were visible. Cars passing, buildings illuminated, people who probably knew nothing about each other’s lives.

I thought about my house in Oaxaca.

About the quiet of the yard at dawn.

About the lemon tree my husband had planted.

I also thought about the day I arrived in Mexico City, believing I was beginning a peaceful stage of my life.

And I understood something very simple.

No one had thrown me out.

But I wasn’t truly at home either.

The next morning, I woke up early as always. I prepared breakfast and left it ready on the table.

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