Chapter 23 - The Visit to Calle Morelos
In the quiet, orderly gardens of the private senior care facility in the southern district of the city, Leticia Rivas sat in a comfortable wicker wheelchair, wrapped in a soft cashmere shawl.
Her health had stabilized, though her mind drifted often between the bitter past and a hazy, quiet present. She no longer spoke of society galas, political connections, or aristocratic bloodlines. Her world had shrunk to the rhythmic blooming of the white roses outside her window and the occasional visits from the only daughter she had ever tried to push away.
I walked down the paved garden path, carrying a small basket of fresh pastries from a bakery in San Ángel.
Leticia turned her head as my footsteps approached. A faint, hesitant light flickered in her tired eyes.
“Mara...?” she whispered, her voice softer and more fragile than it had ever been.
“Hello, Mother,” I said gently, pulling up a wooden chair and sitting down beside her wheelchair. I placed the basket on her lap. “I brought those lemon pastries you used to like when I was a little girl.”
Leticia looked down at the basket, her lower lip trembling. For a long time, she said nothing. The wind rustled through the maple trees overhead, carrying the sweet scent of spring blossoms.
“I don't deserve this,” Leticia murmured, a tear slipping down her wrinkled cheek. “I was cruel to you, Mara. Every single day of your life, I made you feel like you were nothing.”
I reached out, placing my hand over her frail, spotted fingers.
May you like
“You were wrong about a lot of things, Mom,” I said quietly, my voice devoid of anger or bitterness. “You thought love was something you had to earn through perfection, and you thought power was something you had to maintain by crushing others. But you don't have to carry that weight anymore.”
Leticia squeezed my hand—a weak, desperate gesture of a drowning soul holding onto a lifeline. “Thank you... for not letting me drown.”
