19 years working in the U.S. USA… But I left everything after that call…

My name is Josefina Morales, I am 52 years old and no one knows the story I am going to tell, not my children, not my mother, not even the lady for whom I worked for so many years. But I don’t want to keep it to myself anymore because sometimes you think that putting up with it is the right thing to do, but no. What hurts accumulates like a fire inside. I was born in Cuautla. Morelos, in a small adobe house with a tin roof. My dad was a baker, one of those old days who got up at 3 in the morning to prepare everything.

My mom is a housewife with five children and a patience that I never inherited. I am the fourth of the five and since I was a little girl I was always the one who helped the most, not because I was good, but because I had no other choice. I had to drop out of school in high school because my dad got sick and I couldn’t afford it anymore. I went to work in some houses in Cuernavaca, cleaning and taking care of children. From there I met Gerardo, the father of my children.

He was a chaer of one of the houses where I worked. At the beginning everything was beautiful, you know, promises, illusions, plans that one believes are going to be fulfilled. We got together when I was 20 and a year later my eldest son, Luis, was born. At the age of 2, my daughter, Carmen, arrived. But Gerardo was not what he seemed. He was jealous, macho and suddenly violent. Not physically, but with words hurting. He always told me that I was good for nothing, that without him I would die of hunger, that the children were his.

I endured 5 years, 5 years of screaming, humiliation, silent tears. Until one day I couldn’t take it anymore. I went with my children to my mother’s house and he never looked for them again. That’s when the most difficult part began, being a single mother, without a penny and with two children who depended on me. I did what I could, cleaning houses, selling jellies, washing other people’s clothes, but it was a daily struggle and the children grew up and needed more things, uniforms, shoes, notebooks and I no longer knew how to stretch the day to make it enough.

One day a neighbor told me that her cousin had gone to the United States and earned in a week what we earned here in two months. I didn’t think much about it. I only remember that I didn’t sleep that night. I lay down next to my children, hugged them tightly and cried. I cried softly so as not to wake them up, but I cried with my whole body. The following week I was already looking for a way to leave. I got a temporary work visa to care for an elderly lady in San Jose, California.

A lady who knew a family there got it for me. It was only for 6 months, according to that. 6 months. That’s what I repeated to myself. Before I left, I talked to my mom. I asked him to stay with my children while I worked and collected money. I remember what he told me. Go, daughter, but promise me you’ll be back soon. Don’t let money steal your children. And I swore to him that yes, it was only 6 months, that I was not going to let that happen, but it did.

When I arrived in San José I was impressed by everything, the houses, the cars, the cleanliness, the parks, even the smell of the air was different. The lady who took care of her was called Nancy. He had Alzheimer’s. Sometimes she didn’t know who I was, other times I got confused with her daughter. He spoke to me in English and I only smiled because I didn’t understand him at all. At first it was very hard. I didn’t know anyone, I didn’t have anyone to hug, I couldn’t speak well. I felt like a shadow.

I went to work, returned to the room I rented, cried, fell asleep and so on every day. But I started sending money. After two months he could send $300 every fortnight. My mother told me that this was enough for food, for supplies, for shoes and that gave me strength. The six months flew by and when it was time to return, Nancy became very ill. His daughter offered me to stay another time with more pay. He told me, “Josefina, if you stay we will fix something here.

 

Don’t worry, you’re doing a wonderful job.” And I thought about my children, about their faces, about school, about the future, and I agreed to stay. That’s where the real sacrifice began. The years went by on me. I worked in that house for 7 years. Then the lady died and her daughter recommended me to another family, always doing the same thing, cleaning, cooking, taking care, always with my head down, afraid of the migra, with that emptiness in my chest, because although I ate, slept, breathed, something was missing.

And what I was missing were them, Luis and Carmen. I saw them by video call on birthdays, at Christmas. I bought the gifts online and sent them from here, but it wasn’t the same, it never was. I smiled in front of the camera, but when we hung up I broke. I stared at the cell phone turned off as if I could see them again if I concentrated too much. They grew up without me. Luis became quiet, very quiet. He always answered me with few words. Carmen was more affectionate, but over the years she also moved away.

They didn’t tell me anything anymore, they didn’t ask me anything, they just thanked me for the money and said goodbye quickly. And I understood that I was becoming a stranger to them, that in my attempt to give them everything, I had taken away the most important thing, a present mother, but I continued because I was afraid to return and have nothing, because here I already had a routine, a secure job, because I told myself that I was doing it for them.

until one day the phone rang. But I’ll tell you about that later. Back in San José everything was so different. From the first year my life became a routine that never changed. I always woke up at 5 in the morning, even if it was Sunday. The body was already getting used to it. I would get up, make myself a coffee with bread, sometimes just bread because I didn’t want to spend, and walk to the house where I worked. 15 minutes exactly.

The family I worked for were good people, yes, but they always saw me as the lady who helps. I was never Josefina, I was always her, the one who cleans, the one who cooks, the one who picks up the dishes. I didn’t say anything because, what could I say? That was better than being out of work. They never treated me badly, but they didn’t treat me as a person either and you accept it. Little by little, without realizing it. Mondays were the heaviest. Clean bathrooms, vacuum carpets, do laundry, iron, set up the kitchen.

Sometimes my feet hurt so much that I had to sit in the bathroom for a little while to hold on. But he didn’t say it, he just gritted his teeth. I remember that I always had dry fingers, with cracks in my nails, because the cleaning products are already very strong. But I never wore gloves, I felt that they were delaying me. At noon they gave me an hour to eat. I brought my food in a topercito, rice with egg or soup with beans.

I ate in the back of the house, in the little garden. Sometimes I stared at the sky. Sometimes I would think about cuautla, the smell of tortillas in the morning, the heat of my mother’s house and my eyes would get cloudy, but only for a little while. Then I cleaned myself and continued. Because there is no time to be sad there. If you fall, no one picks you up. Wednesdays were light days, according to them, but for me it was the same.

Going to the market, making special food if they had visitors, cleaning the children’s room, mopping the aisles. I cooked everything for them, I learned how to make American food, but they also loved my enchiladas and my red rice. Sometimes the lady would tell me, “Josefina, today you cook like in Mexico, we love that little flavor of yours.” And that gave me a little bit of joy. I felt that something of mine was still worthwhile. Fridays were the days to wash everything, sheets, towels, curtains.

I ended up surrendered. When he went out it was already night. The cold penetrated my bones, but I was colder inside than outside because I arrived at my room and I was alone. a small room with a bed, a small table and a fan. I didn’t have a TV, only my cell phone and with that I connected to the world. Sometimes I talked to my mother, she told me that Carmen already had a boyfriend, that Luis was working in a hardware store. I listened to everything in silence, I just said, “That’s good, ma, I’m glad.” But inside I felt like I was being told about my life

of someone else, as if those boys were no longer mine, as if I were just a distant aunt who finds out about things. And then came the most difficult part, video calls. On Sundays at 8 p.m. the three of us talked. It was Mom’s night, as my daughter said at the beginning, but over the years it became routine too. They didn’t tell me so many things anymore. They laughed among themselves, they told me that everything was fine, not to worry.

I saw them and my soul ached because I realized that they no longer needed me, that they had learned to live without me. Once, in a call, Carmen said to me, “Mom, why don’t you stay there forever? Here we are already grown. And she didn’t tell me angrily, she told me with that coldness that hurts more, as if she had already accepted that her mother was never going to return. That night I cried myself to sleep.

I remember that at that time I had already been there for more than 15 years. 15 years. almost half of my adult life and I had nothing, I had no papers, I had no insurance, I didn’t have a house of my own, I didn’t have a partner, I didn’t have my children, I had money. Yes, but what good was it if I couldn’t hug anyone, if every Christmas I spent alone heating tamales in the microwave, looking at the photos they sent me on WhatsApp and still I kept going because I was afraid to go back and not know what to do, because there you become like a piece of furniture

moreover, they get used to routine, silence, no one calling you by your name, not celebrating your birthday, your only sadness being yours. Once a colleague Lucía from Puebla asked me if I never thought about returning. I told him yes, but that I didn’t know if I had anywhere to go back. He answered me something that stuck in me. José, sometimes you leave for so long that when you come back there is no one waiting for you.

And that left me cold, because it was true. I no longer knew if my children wanted me to return, if they saw me as their mother or as a lady who sends money. I didn’t know if they were mine or if they were just memories, but I still got up every day and went to work because time doesn’t wait for you there, because if you stop you fall. And I didn’t want to fall. There is not, not alone. Until that phone rang.

Being a long-distance mom is like wanting to hug with your hands tied, like wanting to be, but without being able to touch, without being able to smell your children, without hearing their laughter in person, just by call, just by photos, just by memories. At first I tried to be present as much as I could. When I arrived in the United States I sent them letters. Yes, letters, because they didn’t even have a cell phone there at my mother’s house. I wrote to them in my crooked handwriting, with a blue pen, on sheets that I bought at the pharmacy.

I put drawings on them, I told them what I saw on the street, what I ate, what I dreamed. I told them that I missed them, that they were my engine, that I was doing everything for them. I remember when they answered me for the first time. Luis drew me a cart with his name on it and Carmen sent me a heart with crayons. I cried like a child when I opened that envelope. I kept it for many years until I lost it in a move, but it is clearly engraved in my head.

Later, over time, we started talking on the phone. My mom had an old cell phone, but it worked. I talked to them once or twice a week. I asked them how they were, what they ate, how they were doing at school. Carmen always told me more, that she liked a song, that the teacher scolded a child, that she dreamed that I was coming back. Luis was quieter. It’s always been like that, but when he told me, “I miss you, ma,” it broke my heart.

And that’s how they grew up. I sent them everything I could. Clothes, toys, backpacks, books, good shoes. Every December I sent them boxes full of everything. I wrote them a letter, I put candy in them, something with my smell, whatever. And I sat in front of the phone waiting for the day of the video call to arrive so I could see their faces when they opened the presents. But I also began to notice that they didn’t need me the same anymore, that my voice didn’t move them so much anymore, that their lives went on with or without me.

When Carmen turned 15, I wanted to send her everything so that she could have a nice party. I sent her the dress, the shoes, the cake I ordered from here, I even paid a guy from Cuautla to take photos and send them to me. That day I dressed up by myself as if it were a wedding. I put on a blouse that I liked, combed my hair, painted myself a little and sat in front of the computer to watch it by video call. I saw her dance with my brother, her chamberlain.

I saw how he blew out the candles, I saw how they gave him hugs and I saw how he greeted me on the screen saying, “Thank you, ma. It was all very nice, but in his eyes there was not the emotion I expected and that hurt me more than if he had yelled at me, because I understood that I was no longer his center, that I was his mother, like that, but from a distance, that it was like a memory that helps, but does not accompany. Luis didn’t even want to have a party. He told me that he preferred me to send him the money to buy a used motorcycle and he bought it for him.

I never saw her in person, only in photos. I never knew if she was safe, I just trusted. And so time went by. I saw how they grew, how their voices, their faces, their way of speaking changed, how they stopped calling me mom to call me ma. How did they talk to me less? They told me less, they asked me less and I smiled, I pretended that everything was fine, but inside I felt more and more distant, as if every dollar I sent built one more wall between us.

Once Luis told me, “You don’t know what it’s like to live without mom.” And he told me without courage, with sadness, with that truth that weighs heavily. I just told him, “Neither do I, son. I need them too.” And I regretted saying it because I felt that I had no right, that they had more reasons to be sad than I did. And of course I tried to go back. Once I tried. It was when Carmen had her first child. Yes, I’m already a grandmother. But even that wasn’t enough for me to make the decision.

I was afraid. Afraid of arriving and not being recognized. Afraid of being seen as an intruder. Afraid that the baby would call me a lady instead of a grandmother. And besides, I no longer had papers. Leaving was easy, entering again impossible. So I stayed, I clung to that routine, to that job, to those calls where I only said how they are and they answered, “Well, ma, everything is fine.” And that’s how my life went. With birthdays by video call, with news by messages, with imagined hugs.

Sometimes I would sit on my bed at night and wonder if it was worth it. If all those years working like a donkey, sending money, enduring loneliness, really helped my children. If I gave them a future or if I took away something that was never going to be recovered, because money buys many things, but it does not buy lost time. And I lost so much, so much until one day the phone rang again, but that time something changed.

It was a Tuesday, I don’t forget, Tuesday at 10:17 in the morning. I was cleaning the windows in the dining room when I felt the phone vibrate in my pants. I took it out quickly because at that time it was not normal for someone to call me. Almost always my children sent me messages in the afternoon, after work or when they had a little free time, but not that time. That time it was a call. I saw the name on the screen, Luis. My heart raced.

I clearly remember that the cloth slipped from my hands and fell to the floor. I answered without thinking, my hands still wet. Well, son, is everything okay? On the other side there was noise as if I were in the street, but he didn’t answer me, he just breathed. Luis, what’s wrong, my love? Are you ok? Then he said to me in a broken voice, “Ma, Grandma is gone. That’s when the air went out, as if my head had been put under water.

I heard no more, just a ringing in my ears. My body froze. The phone almost fell out of my hands. I sat on the floor right there, not caring that it was dirty, not caring about anything. which was the only thing I could say. He got sick last night, he didn’t wake up. The doctor said it was the heart. He didn’t suffer, ma, he didn’t suffer. And that’s when I broke. My mom, the woman who had raised my children, the one who had my back for almost 20 years, the one who sent me blessings on every call, the one who told me that

I would take care of the cold, the one who always told me, “Come on, daughter, you have already fulfilled your promise.” That woman was no longer there and I was not there. I wasn’t there when he felt bad. I wasn’t there when they took her to the hospital. I was not there when he took his last breath. I wasn’t there. And that, I’m never going to forget. Luis told me that they were all fine, not to worry, that they were already watching over her at home, that Carmen was with her baby, that he was with them.

But I only thought one thing, why wasn’t there? I hung up the call and stayed there on the floor like a stone. I didn’t cry at the time. I couldn’t. I felt empty, as if my soul had been taken out. After an hour I got up, went to the lady of the house, told her that I needed to get out, that there was a family emergency. He looked at me with a doubtful face, as if he didn’t understand. He said nothing other than, “Okay, take the day.” And I went out.

I went for a walk aimlessly, I just walked. The streets of San José seemed colder than ever. People passed by me with their coffees, their headphones, their dogs as if nothing had happened. And I carrying the death of my mother alone in my chest. That night I didn’t sleep. I sat up on the bed with the light off and cried. I cried with my body, with my throat, with my teeth clenched. It wasn’t just because of my mom, it was because of everything, because of the years, because of the hugs I didn’t give her, because of the times she told me she wanted to see me, because of last Christmas she told me, “Next year I hope you’ll be here.” And I wasn’t there.

And the worst thing was that I couldn’t go. If I left, I could not return. And although I was dying to be there, I panicked to leave everything I had here, my job, my income, my years, everything that cost me so much. But what was worth more? The next day I spoke with Carmen. She was more whole than I was. He told me that Grandma looked at peace, that many people came to say goodbye, that everyone was asking about me. And then he let go of what broke my soul.

Mom, you can’t go on living there alone anymore. You’re missing out on everything. I didn’t say anything because I knew he was right. She continued. My son is going to grow up without knowing you. I don’t want that. I don’t want you to be a voice on the cell phone like you were with us. No, again, ma, please. And I was speechless because that phrase pierced me like a knife. How did you get along with us? He had said it without malice, without courage, but it was true. I was a voice, I was money, I was memories, I was not a flesh and blood mother, I was not a presence, I was not a hug.

And there for the first time, in almost 20 years, I began to think about leaving everything. I spent days thinking, weeks. Every night I wondered if I still had something there, if my children were going to accept me, if my grandson was going to call me grandma, if it was going to be too late, if I was going to regret it. But I also wondered if it made sense to continue here working for others in a country where I was always invisible. My mother’s death was the blow that opened my eyes and also the one that made me see that I could not wait any longer.

That’s when the most difficult decision of my life began. After the call where they told me that my mom had died, something broke inside me. But it was not all at once, it was like a crack that opened little by little. It began that same night and each day it grew bigger, as if the air no longer reached me, as if everything that had given me strength before no longer made sense. During the days that followed, I went to work as if I were a ghost.

I did everything automatically, I cleaned, cooked, swept. But it wasn’t there. My mind was far away in Guautla, in the house where I grew up, in my mother’s bedroom, in the kitchen where she taught me how to make rice, in the yard where we hung clothes together, in everything that was not going to come back. And at the same time I felt a fear that tightened my chest, because starting to think about returning was not just anything, it was leaving everything I had built.

Yes, it was little, but it was mine, my room, my things, my work, my routine. And although I never felt completely happy there, I was afraid to go back and not know who I am. I didn’t tell anyone, not even my children. nor my companions. I just thought about it in silence. He asked me questions that I didn’t know how to answer. And if they don’t want me there anymore. What if I go back and can’t find a job? What if I get sick and can’t afford to pay for a doctor?

What if Carmen doesn’t need me anymore? What if Luis still holds a grudge against me? But on the other hand there was the other. What if I miss another important moment again? What if my grandson grows up and doesn’t know who I am? What if I die here alone and no one finds out? What if I don’t have enough time to recover what I lost? One night after work I sat in front of the table with my old notebook, the one where I wrote down everything I sent in money, and I began to write, not numbers, words.

I wrote down everything I had done in those 19 years. How much I sent, how many times I cried, how many times I wanted to return, how many times I put up with it. I wrote everything I had left, Christmas without them, the holidays I missed, the illnesses I kept quiet, the hugs I missed and in the end I wrote big. Now what? I looked at him for a long time, then closed the notebook and said to myself in a low voice, “Enough is enough, Josefina.” That same week I spoke with Carmen.

“Daughter, I need to talk to you seriously,” I said. She remained silent. Then he said, “Are you coming?” I didn’t know what to say. I felt the words get stuck in my throat, but then, as if someone else was speaking for me, I let go. “Yes, daughter, I’m going back. ” She was silent for a moment. Then she began to cry. Ma, you don’t know how long I waited for that. There I cried too, but not out of sadness. I cried with fear, yes, but also with relief.

As if I had finally made the right decision, as if I was finally choosing something for me, not just out of necessity. That night I didn’t sleep. I spent my time thinking about everything I had to do, pack, decide what to take, who to give my things to, talk to the lady to tell her that I was leaving, look for a ticket and above all prepare for what I was going to find there. I was afraid to see Luis, afraid to see reproach in his eyes, afraid that he would look at me like a stranger, afraid that he would not hug me.

With Carmen it was different, she was always more open, warmer, but with him, with him things were harder. I wrote him a message, I didn’t dare to call him. Son, I’m going back. I don’t know how it’s all going to be, but I want to try. Forgive me if it took me so long. He didn’t answer me right away. Three days passed, three, which felt like 3 years and then he sent me a short message. Here we are waiting for you, ma. I cried again because even though it was short it was enough.

The lady I was working with didn’t understand my decision very much. She told me to think things through, that I wasn’t going to find the same thing in Mexico, that I was safer there. But I didn’t want security anymore. I wanted to be with my loved ones, even if it was late, even if I didn’t know how. I started packing my things. I realized how many things I had that I didn’t really need. Clothes that I never wore, shoes that I didn’t even like anymore, things kept just in case, but I also kept my memories, the photos, the letters from my children, the small gifts they sent me for birthdays, everything that sustained me those years.

I bought the ticket with the savings I had, one way. The day I got on the plane my legs were shaking. It was the first time he had returned in 19 years, almost two decades. I climbed up alone with a knot in my stomach with a mixture of excitement and terror. During the flight I started looking out the window and thought about everything. On the good days, on the bad days, on the times I wanted to give up. And I said to myself, “You’ve done what you had to do, now it’s your turn to live again.” I didn’t know what to expect, I just knew that when I got off I was no longer going to be alone.

When the plane landed in Mexico City, the first thing I felt was the smell, a smell that I can’t explain, but that I’ve known since I was a child. A mixture of earth, comal, smoke, street, I don’t know, something that made me cry unintentionally. I put my hand in my mouth so I wouldn’t cry right there with the people around. In immigration I had no problem. I walked out with my old suitcase, the one that accompanied me since I arrived in the United States.

I brought what little I could fit and a bag with sweets and chocolates for my grandchildren. I didn’t know how I was going to make them see, I didn’t know what face to make, I just knew it was now or never. My daughter was waiting for me outside, Carmen, in person, after so many years. When I saw her, it was difficult for me to recognize her. She was no longer the girl I left, she was a woman with dark circles, with a mother’s body, with a different look. I approached slowly. She looked at me, smiled and hugged me tightly, without saying anything, she just cried and so did I.

We were like this, silent for several minutes. People passed by, cars honked, but we were stuck there, crying as if time could be erased with a hug. “Welcome home, ma,” he said quietly. And there I broke down again. Luis didn’t go for me. He said he couldn’t, that he had a job, but I knew it wasn’t because of that, it was because he wasn’t ready. And I understood it, because I wasn’t ready for many things either. The road to Cuautla was long.

I left in silence most of the way. Carmen talked to me, told me things, but I just listened. I felt weird, like it wasn’t my country, like everything had changed too much. When we got to the house it was another blow. My mother’s house. Now he no longer had her voice, he no longer smelled of her, he could no longer hear his radio on in the mornings. The bedroom was empty, her things stored, her photos in a box. I sat on her bed, closed my eyes, imagined her there, and asked for forgiveness.

Not out loud, but I thought about it so loudly that I felt like he heard me. Then my grandchildren arrived. First the oldest, Carmen’s son, was 3 years old, looked at me curiously, hid behind his mother. I bent down, held out my hand and said, “Hi, I’m your grandmother.” He didn’t answer me, he just looked at me. Then he ran away and I laughed. I laughed nervously, but happy, because at least I saw it. He was there in flesh and blood.

Luis arrived at night, he didn’t knock on the door, he just went in. He greeted me with a quick kiss on the cheek. He said, “It’s good that you came, ma.” And he went to the courtyard. I stood there like a fool. I didn’t know whether to hug him, to say something. I didn’t know how to break that wall between us. The days passed and the truth was not easy. It wasn’t like those stories where everything is forgiveness and happiness. It wasn’t awkward, it was weird. I felt that I had no place, that I was invading something that was no longer mine.

My children were already adults, they had their customs, their rhythm, their way of life. I didn’t fit in, I didn’t know where to leave my things, I didn’t know what time to eat, I didn’t know whether to ask or stay silent. I slept in the bedroom that had been Carmen’s, in a bed that was too small for me. I woke up early like there, but here no one got up late. I would sit on the patio drinking coffee alone, looking at the sky. Sometimes I wanted to go back.

Sometimes I wondered if I had made a mistake. One day Carmen said to me, “Ma, you have to be patient. Don’t expect everything to be as it was before. We have to get to know each other again. And he was right. We spent so much time apart that we no longer knew how to treat each other. I didn’t know if I could scold her son, if I could have an opinion, if I could get into her kitchen. I felt like a visitor who stayed longer than necessary. With Luis it was even harder. He barely spoke to me, only what was necessary.

He left early, he returned late. I prepared his food, I left it served, but he ate without looking at me. One night I plucked up the courage, sat down in front of him and said, “Son, if you want me to leave, I’m leaving. I want to make people uncomfortable. I only came because I thought I still had something to give them. He looked at me and for the first time in a long time spoke to me with his heart in his hand. I don’t want you to leave, ma. I just don’t know how to be with you.

I got used to the fact that you weren’t there. That hurt me. But it was also necessary to listen to him. I also got used to living without you,” I told him. And that’s the saddest thing that has happened to me. We remain silent. Then he took my hand, squeezed me tightly and I felt something open, that something was beginning to heal. It wasn’t overnight nor was it easy, but over time I slowly started to feel part of it again. Now I play with my grandson, he tells me Abu and looks for me to tell him stories.

Carmen asks me for advice. Luis sits down to talk from time to time, not about everything, but about something. And that’s already a lot. Returning was not what I dreamed of, it was much more difficult, but it was also more real, because life is not like the movies, it is as it is, full of silences, of stored anger, of times that no longer return, but also of opportunities to start again. and one has the courage and I although with fear, although with doubts I returned.

It’s been several months since I came back and believe it or not, I’m just starting to feel like I have my feet on the ground, because at first I felt like I was floating, like I was living in a movie where nothing seemed real to me. He was here, yes, but he was also still there with his head full of customs, of schedules of another life. One of the things that was most difficult for me was to understand that my children no longer needed me as they used to, not because they don’t love me, but because they have already learned to make their lives without me.

And that hurts more than you think, because you imagine that when you come back they will hug you every day, that they will want to talk to you about everything, that they will ask you for advice, that they will ask you things, but no. Luis, for example, has his routine. He gets up, takes a bath, goes to work, comes back tired, sits down to watch TV, has dinner, falls asleep, sometimes he doesn’t even greet me when he enters, not because he hates me, he’s just already used to living like this, to living without a mother who receives him, who asks him things.

And I have to accept that because he didn’t choose to grow up without me. With Carmen it’s a little different. She does get closer. She tells me about her son, asks me for help with food, asks me how I did certain things. Sometimes he sits with me to talk while we wash the dishes. I value those moments more than anything. They’re simple, but they make me feel like I’m still their mom, even if it’s different. And my grandson, alas, he has given me a reason to stay.

he tells me, “Abu, as I told you, he hugs me tightly when I get home from the market, he asks me to read him the same story 10 times, he falls asleep on top of me as if he had known me all my life and that gives me a little peace because maybe I couldn’t raise my children, but I still have the opportunity to be there for him. But I’m not going to lie to you, not everything has been pretty. It has been very difficult for me to find my place at home, in the family, in life.

Sometimes I feel that I get in the way, that my opinions no longer matter, that when I speak no one listens, that what I experienced there in the north has no value here, that I am just the lady who returned. And that has hit me hard because there, even if I felt alone, at least I had a routine, a job, a meaning. Here I feel out of place, I don’t have a job, I don’t have my things, I depend on them to move, to go out, even to have a decent cell phone.

And although my children have never thrown it in my face, I am sorry. I feel that discomfort, that and now, what? I tried to look for a job, something simple, clean houses, take care of children, but I don’t have the same energy anymore. My body hurts more, the sun tires me faster and also many houses already have someone and when they ask my age they tell me that they let me know, but they don’t call. So I spend my days at home, I cook, I sweep, I wash clothes, I play with my grandson, but at night, when everyone is asleep, I start to think, I sit in bed, in silence and I wonder if I did it right.

Was it worth leaving everything to return? Do I still have time to recover something? Can I feel useful again? Could it be that I just have to wait? Because that’s what scares me the most, becoming a person who is alone, but who is no longer part of anything. I once said that to Carmen, who felt that she no longer had a role in this life. And she looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “Ma, you can’t imagine what it means to me that you’re here.

Hearing your voice in the kitchen, seeing you fold laundry, hearing you laugh with my son makes me feel like I have a mom again and that gave me strength, not to erase everything that hurts, but to keep going, because sometimes the only thing we need to not give up is for someone to tell us that we are still important. With Luis it has been slower, quieter, but it is no longer like at the beginning. Sometimes he leaves me a cup of coffee on the table without saying anything.

Sometimes he asks me how I did in the market. Sometimes he sits with me to watch the news. We don’t talk much, but there’s no longer that cold distance. I don’t feel like he hates me anymore, I just feel like he’s learning to see me as his mom again. And I’m also learning to see them as they are, not as the children I left behind, but as the adults that life gave me back. I have had to let go of the guilt little by little. It’s not easy, but I’m trying.

I repeat to myself, that I did the best I could, that if I left it was out of necessity. Not for nothing that if I worked so hard it was so that they would have something better, not to abandon them. And I know they know it too, even if they don’t always say it. Now, when I wake up, I don’t feel so lost anymore. I have a reason to get up. I have things to do, I have people waiting for me and although it’s not perfect, it’s real, it’s life. I don’t know how long I’ll have left, I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, but for the first time in many years

I’m here, I’m present, I’m looking my children in the eye, I’m feeling the hugs, I’m hearing the laughter, I’m alive. And that after so much time is already a lot. Today I am 52 years old. I live in Cuautla again, but not in the same house where I grew up. That house no longer exists. They sold it after my mom died. Now I live with my daughter in a simple two-room house. I share a room with my grandson. Sometimes he wakes me up in the early morning because he wants water or because he is afraid.

And instead of getting angry, I smile because for so many years no one woke me up, I slept alone and now I don’t. I don’t have great things. I don’t have a house of my own, or a car, or fat accounts in the bank. I didn’t have much left of everything I worked on in the United States. I sent everything, I distributed it, I spent it on others and I don’t complain because I did it with love, but I did learn something, that the time you give to yours is worth more than the money you send them.

Nobody taught me that. I learned it over the years, with the silences, with the birthdays I missed, with the hugs that didn’t come, with the I miss you, that my children told me on the phone, without knowing that it hurt twice as much. I also learned that when you leave looking for a better future, you often do so without knowing what you are leaving behind. One believes that 6 months, a year, 2 years are nothing. But they are all because in that time children grow, change, grow up without you.

And when you want to come back, you’re not the same anymore, and neither are they. I don’t regret having gone, but what I lost hurts me. Because it feels ugly to see photos of your children in stages that you did not live, to hear stories of moments that you were not there, to know that there were illnesses, scares, achievements and that you were not there to hug, to care, to celebrate. That’s why now I value every day, every meal we have together, every game with my grandson, every talk with my daughter, every time Luis tells me, “Thank you, ma, even if it’s short, every detail.

I don’t think so much about what I don’t have, I think about what I still have, about what was given back to me, although different, about the time that I can share, because even if I can’t recover what I lost, I can take care of what I have now. And if you are listening to me or reading me and you are out there in the north working hard, dreaming of a better future for your loved ones, I just want to tell you something with all my heart. Don’t forget to live.

Don’t forget to call, send an audio, ask how they are. Don’t forget to tell them your things too, to share what you feel, because not only do they need you, you also need to feel a part of it. Don’t make yourself invisible and if you can, come back. Not when you have money left over, not when everything is perfect. Come back when your heart asks for it. Because many times we let time pass waiting for the ideal moment. And that moment never comes and when you realize it, it’s too late.

Yo me tardé 19 años y aunque me dolió todo lo que me perdí, hoy estoy aquí con los míos, escuchando sus voces de cerca, viendo como mi nieto aprende palabras nuevas, sintiendo el calor de mi tierra, caminando por calles que huelen a tortillas recién hechas, oyendo los perros ladrar en la noche y todo eso me devuelve la vida. A veces me siento cansada, a veces me sigue doliendo el cuerpo, a veces extraño la rutina que tenía allá, pero prefiero eso mil veces que volver a dormirme sola en un cuarto frío con el corazón lleno de preguntas.

Ahora tengo menos cosas, pero más sentido. Y si tú has vivido algo parecido, si alguna vez tuviste que irte para darles algo mejor a los tuyos, te entiendo. No te juzgo, sé que se hace por necesidad, pero si sientes que algo dentro de ti te está pidiendo volver, aunque sea solo por un tiempo, hazle caso. La familia, la de verdad, no se construye con dinero, se construye con presencia, con paciencia, con cariño, con tiempo. Yo sé que no todos pueden regresar.

Hay quien no puede por papeles, por salud, por deudas, por miedo. Y está bien, no todo el mundo tiene la oportunidad, pero si la tienes, piensa bien en lo que vale la pena, porque uno puede trabajar toda la vida. Pero los abrazos no se guardan para después.