Miguel’s dorm room was small but bright.
They made the bed. Arranged books. Hung a small framed photo of Miguel and Mariana from graduation day, the one where he put the diploma in her hands. Miguel placed it on his desk without embarrassment.
“You sure?” Mariana asked.
He looked at her like she was being ridiculous.
“Mom. It’s my favorite picture.”
When it was time to leave, Mariana tried to be strong.
She failed immediately.
Miguel hugged her in the hallway while students squeezed past with storage bins and pillows.
“You’re going to be okay,” he said.
“I’m the mother. I say that to you.”
“You can say it too.”
She held him tighter.
“I’m so proud of you.”
“I know.”
“Call me.”
“I will.”
“Eat real food.”
“I will.”
“Don’t wash whites with colors.”
“I know, Mom.”
Patricia wiped her eyes and said, “And if rich kids act weird, call me. I’ll humble them.”
