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She took a moment before responding. “It was a couple of days ago. I was on a phone call to my friend, and I replied in Spanish, and she smiled.”
After years of hoping and years of praying, my wishes finally came through. My daughter smiled. Sophie responded to something with an obvious emotion.
I gripped the edge of the table tightly when I felt tears burn the back of my eyes. My daughter was blooming.
“Did she smile after that? Can she smile for me now?”
She breathed. “No.”
I ignored the pang of pain in my heart.
“Sophie’s a little girl trying to navigate her way out of her head. It is important that we recognize this so she doesn't feel pressured. Like I said, she's a flower waiting to bloom. A blooming flower is not a rushed process.”
It was difficult to hear, but I understood. I also fully understood now… beyond sentiment, that Evie was a therapist.
“What did you say?” I asked. “The language. What was it?”
“El que la hace, la paga,”
“What does that mean?”
Her tongue darted out to lick her lips. “He who does it pays for it.”
sixteen
Evie
Seven Years Ago
“Bye, Emma,” I yelled, waving at her.
She yelled and waved with the same vigor. “Bye, Evie. Don’t forget to do our Math homework.”
I rolled my eyes, dismissing her with a wave of my finger. Once I took a turn in my direction, I could no longer see her. Sniffing nothing in particular, I clutched the strap of my bag tighter.
As I wove between the sea of people going about their daily routines, I spotted familiar elderly neighbors chatting on stoops. “Hi, Ms. Jones.”
“Oh, hi darling. How was school today?”
“Fine. Thank you.”
I continued weaving my way through the sea of people until I cut another corner. This was the final street that led to our house. It wasn't as crowded as the previous street, but it wasn't deserted.
I still had quite a distance to cover. I could almost smell my mother’s cookies from here. The thought alone made me walk faster. Mother usually made cookies for me on certain days after school.
Most times she made them in the morning before she left for her small flower shop. But recently, she’d been around… a lot. It was because of her cancer. She was just recovering after years of battling with it.
Still, that didn't affect the cookies.
She made sure to make cookies before my arrival. I loved my mom, and I wished she’d let me have cookies every day.
Trust me, Mom’s cookies were great. But her constant nag about how I shouldn't abuse snacks was her response to my everyday cookie request. It’s good to satiate your sweet tooth, but it’s bad to do it every time. That was her favorite catchphrase.
She barely let me have cheat days. But that's where Dad came in. He gave me cheat days... on the basis that I wouldn't tell Mom, of course. I never did.
I picked up my pace when I almost reached our apartment building. I could already taste the cookies. With a huge smile, I arrived at our apartment building.
It was a tired-looking structure squeezed between taller, more imposing buildings. Like most of the buildings in the neighborhood, its brick facade was cracked.
