Miguel nodded slowly.
“That’s the difference between you and Mom. She never cared how hard the scene was if I needed her.”
He walked away before Damian could answer.
Mariana followed.
This time, she did not look back.
Lunch was not at a fancy steakhouse.
It was at a small Salvadoran restaurant in Arlington where Miguel had gone after school with friends when he had enough spare money for pupusas. The owner knew him by name and brought an extra plate of curtido without asking. Mariana sat across from her son and sister at a plastic-covered table, still wearing her blue dress, still holding the bouquet.
Miguel ate like a starving man after weeks of nerves.
Patricia kept replaying the speech on her phone and crying every time.
“Stop watching it,” Mariana said.
“I will not. This is my cinema.”
Miguel laughed.
For a while, they were just happy.
