The Weight of Love

The smell of antiseptic and lavender filled the small house.

The antiseptic was for the sickness.

The lavender was for hope—as if the soft scent could mask the fear settling into my bones. It didn’t. Not really. But it was the only thing I could do. The only thing that made this place feel like home instead of a waiting room for death.

I stirred the soup slowly, the wooden spoon clinking against the side of the pot. My hands trembled, though I pretended they didn’t. Pretended everything was fine. Pretended the world outside didn’t exist.

My mother barely ate these days, but I still tried.

I tried to cook.

Tried to clean.

Tried to keep my grades up in night classes I no longer had the energy for.

Tried to keep the lights on. Tried to be strong. Tried to keep myself from falling apart.

But every day, I felt like I was losing her.

And losing myself.

"Go, Emilia," she said suddenly from the couch, her voice thin but insistent.

"Ma, eat," I replied, forcing a gentle smile as I brought the tray to her lap.

The bowl of soup trembled slightly from my unsteady grip, but I set it down carefully. The broth steamed softly, like it was whispering warmth into the cold air of our tiny living room.

She was too thin now. Her cheekbones sharp, her arms frail. The strong woman who used to dance barefoot in the kitchen, who used to sing at the top of her lungs on Saturday mornings and make empanadas from scratch, was now just a shadow of herself.

She took my hand. Her fingers were like paper—thin, dry, but still warm. Her grip was weak, but it stopped me all the same.

"Mi amor," she whispered. "You don’t belong here."

I blinked at her. Swallowed hard.

"Where else would I be?"

"Finishing school. Living your life. Not wasting away in this house with me."

I gently pulled my hand from hers and sat on the edge of the couch. I didn’t want to cry in front of her. Not again.

"Ma, don’t say that. You need me."

She sighed, her tired brown eyes soft with something deep—something I wasn’t ready to hear.

"I need you to be happy."

"I am happy."

She laughed—soft and breathy, but full of knowing. "Mentirosa. My little liar."

I bit down on the inside of my cheek. I could feel the tears threatening again, but I wouldn’t let them fall. Not here. Not now. Not when she needed me to be strong.

She reached up and brushed my cheek, her hand feather-light, her skin fragile but still familiar.

"You’ve always been strong," she said, eyes distant, as if she were seeing someone I couldn’t anymore. "Even when you were a little girl. You remember? Standing on that chair, stirring the arroz like you were already a chef."

A memory stirred with the soup.

---

Flashback: Stirring the Pot

Six-year-old me stood on my tiptoes, propped up on a wobbly wooden chair in our cramped kitchen. My hair was tied back in a crooked ponytail, and my small hands gripped the oversized wooden spoon with all the determination in the world.

The silver pot on the stove was almost too tall for me to reach, but I stirred anyway, just like she showed me.

“Mama, am I doing it right?” I asked, my voice full of excitement.

She hummed a lullaby—soft, familiar—and spun around barefoot on the linoleum floor. Her eyes sparkled as she twirled, her hair falling in loose waves around her face. She looked so alive back then. Like joy lived in her bones.

“Perfecto, mi amor,” she said, walking over to kiss my forehead. “One day, you’ll cook for your own little family. And you’ll tell them, ‘My mama taught me this.’”

I wrinkled my nose. “But I don’t want my own family! I just want to stay with you forever!”

She smiled, that kind of smile that tugged at the corners of her eyes. But behind it, there was something else. Something heavy.

“No one stays forever, mi vida,” she said softly. “That’s why we have to love while we can.”

---

Back to Reality

I blinked. The memory faded, replaced by the harsh light of the present.

"Ma," I whispered, my throat tight.

"You’re wasting your life, Emilia," she said again. But this time, her voice cracked. "I didn’t raise you to give up."

My chest clenched. "I’m not giving up."

She gave me that look. The one that said she saw right through me. The one I used to hate as a teenager but now found myself craving—because it meant she still saw me.

"Then prove it," she murmured. "Go."

"I can’t."

"Yes, you can."

I opened my mouth to argue, to say who would take care of you, but—

A sudden gasp left my lips.

The TV, which had been playing softly in the background, suddenly cut to something urgent.

The news anchor’s voice pierced the room like a siren:

"BREAKING NEWS—Wall Street CEO Max Carter under investigation—"

My blood turned to ice.

My mother sat up straighter, her brows furrowing. "What is it?"

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

Because there he was.

On the screen.

Max.

His face was tight, jaw clenched, suit perfect as always, but the fury in his eyes was unmistakable. The photo beside him looked like it was ripped from a business magazine—powerful, polished, godlike.

But the headline painted a different picture:

“Insider Trading Allegations Rock Carter & Wakefield.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“Isn’t that your old boss?” my mother asked softly, her voice cautious.

I nodded, my lips numb.

The reporter continued, spewing words like “fraud,” “whistleblower,” “investigation”—words that should’ve sounded like victory.

But all I felt was dread.

Because I knew that look in Max’s eyes. The same one he had when I handed in my resignation after he’d pushed too far. The same cold silence that followed me out of the building. Like he didn’t care. Like I was nothing.

But something told me I wasn’t nothing to him now.

Something told me he hadn’t forgotten.

My heart thudded painfully in my chest.

Was this connected to me?

Did he think I was the one who—

No.

No, I couldn’t think about that. Not right now.

I turned off the TV, the screen going black.

My mother touched my hand again.

"You okay, mija?"

I looked at her, then at the untouched soup. The tray shaking on her lap. Her pale cheeks. The lavender oil diffusing in the corner. My chest ached.

"No," I said softly. "But I will be."

She smiled, tired but proud. "That’s my girl."

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