“Do not go anywhere else. I will call you back in two minutes.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
Those words nearly broke through the composure I had spent years building.
“What are you apologizing for?”
“For calling while you’re working.”
I pressed my palm against the cool wall.
“You call me whenever you need me. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I ended the call and dialed my aunt.
Consuelo answered on the second ring.
“Patricia?”
“Tía, I need your help.”
Her voice sharpened immediately.
“What happened?”
“Jimena is outside Mom and Dad’s house. They will not let her in.”
There was a short silence. Then Consuelo said something under her breath that I could not make out.
“I’m at the hospital,” I continued. “The roads are bad, and I cannot leave. Can you get her?”
“I’m putting on my shoes.”
“She may have to walk to the pharmacy on the corner.”
“I know the one. Tell her I’m coming. If Canyon Road is closed, I’ll go around by the church.”
“Thank you.”
“Do not thank me for opening a door for a child.”
Her anger was quiet, which somehow made it more reassuring.
“I’ll call you when she is in my car.”
I called Jimena again and stayed on the phone while she walked the short distance to the pharmacy. I could hear rain striking the hood of her jacket. Every few seconds she told me what she could see—the white fence, the closed dry cleaner, the glowing green pharmacy sign—because I needed to know she was still moving toward light and other people.
A clerk let her stand near the register and plugged her phone into a charger behind the counter.
Ten minutes later, Consuelo called.
“I have her,” she said.
In the background, I heard a car door close.
“How is she?”
“Cold. Quiet. Trying to convince me she is fine.”
That sounded exactly like Jimena.
“Take her home. Please.”
“She’s coming with me. I have soup on the stove and the guest room is ready.”
“I owe you.”
“No, Patricia. You don’t.”
Her voice softened.
“You just keep doing what you have to do there. I’ll take care of your girl.”
When the call ended, relief came first.
Then came the anger.
It was not loud. It did not rush through me. It arrived with a terrible steadiness, the kind that makes every detail clearer.
I called my mother.
She answered as though it were an ordinary Thursday afternoon.
“Hello, Patricia.”
“What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do not do that. Jimena was standing outside your house.”
My mother was silent.
Behind her, I heard dishes moving and one of Marisol’s children laughing.
“We already have too many people here,” she said.
“You knew she was coming.”
“You said she might come.”
“I sent the bus information. She texted Dad from the station.”
“Your father was resting.”
“His message showed as read.”
Another pause.
My mother lowered her voice, the way she always did when she wanted calmness to sound like authority.