Mi pecho se apretó.
“¿Te lo dijo?”
“Sí”.
“¿Entonces por qué se fue?”
“Estaba asustada”.
“She could have called for help.”
“She wasn’t thinking clearly.”
I lowered my voice.
“That is exactly why she should not have been driving.”
Mom began crying.
I had spent most of my life responding to those tears.
If Mom cried, I apologized.
Si lloraba, acordé dejar de discutir.
If she cried, I somehow became responsible for making everything better.
But I couldn’t do it anymore.
“Mom, I have to go.”
“Marisa, por favor”.
I ended the call.
Mis manos temblaban.
Not because I was uncertain about what I had said.
Because it was the first time I could remember ending a conversation with my mother without asking permission to do so.
Later that week, I gave my formal account.
El investigador me pidió que describiera la noche desde el principio.
Le expliqué la alimentación de medianoche.
