7. Isabella Viana
1368 Words
The taxi was waiting across the street, but I couldn’t move. My eyes were fixed on the small house with peeling walls and narrow windows—the place that had been both my refuge and my prison for so long. The watch on my wrist ticked away, each second reminding me that my life was about to change forever.
I had chosen that time on purpose. I knew he wouldn’t be there. I knew that, for a few hours, that house would belong only to me and her—my mother.
I took a deep breath, trying to gather my courage, and crossed the street with unsteady steps. Every inch closer made my heart beat faster. When I reached the door, I hesitated. I raised my hand to knock, but it was already slightly open.
“Mom?” I called softly, almost a whisper.
I heard light footsteps, and then my mother’s fragile figure appeared in the hallway. Her eyes widened when she saw me, and a sad smile formed on her lips.
“Isa… you came.”
“I came to say goodbye,” I replied, my voice faltering. “I couldn’t leave without talking to you.”
She walked over and wrapped me in a tight embrace. Her scent—a mix of cheap floral perfume and coffee—surrounded me in a way so familiar it made my chest ache.
“I still can’t believe my little girl is going so far away,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “It’s going to be so hard…”
“I know, Mom. I know it’s going to be hard for both of us,” I said, pulling back just enough to look into her reddened eyes. “But it’s the only way. I have to try.”
She nodded, but her hands trembled as they held mine.
“I just wish things were different, Isa. I wish you didn’t have to leave to have a better life.”
“I wish that too, Mom,” I admitted, feeling tears threaten to spill. “But I can’t stay here anymore. Not with him. Not with… all of this.”
She lowered her gaze, as if she couldn’t face me after my words. The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Until finally, in a voice barely audible, she said:
“I know he’s a problem… I know I should have left with you… but I… I can’t.”
I cupped her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me.
“Mom, you deserve so much more than this. You deserve peace, you deserve love—you deserve to be happy. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life knowing you stayed here suffering. Please… please promise me you’ll try.”
Her tears finally fell, silent, as if each one carried a wound.
“I promise I’ll try… for you.”
I kissed her forehead, a knot forming in my throat that felt impossible to swallow.
“I’m going to work hard, save money. One day I’ll come back, and when I do, I want to take you with me. Just the two of us again, remember? Like when I was little.”
She smiled through her tears—a fragile, almost childlike smile.
“I remember, my girl.”
The sound of a car approaching made me glance over my shoulder, tense. It wasn’t him, but the fear of running into him lingered like a constant shadow.
“I have to go,” I whispered. “The taxi is waiting.”
“Wait.”
She hurried to the bedroom and came back with a small, carefully wrapped box.
“Open it on the plane. A little piece of home…”
I took the box, feeling the emotional weight of the gesture, and carefully placed it in my backpack.
We hugged one last time, tighter this time, as if we were trying to memorize the feeling of safety.
“Take care of yourself, Isa. And don’t forget… I love you,” she said, her voice trembling.
“I love you too, Mom. More than anything.”
Then I pulled away before the urge to stay could overpower the need to leave. Every step toward the taxi felt like tearing pieces of myself apart, but I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.
When I got into the car and looked out the window, I saw my mother standing in the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself, trying to hold back her tears.
My heart felt like an open wound, but somewhere inside me, a small flame of hope flickered. I needed to believe that one day, we would both be free.
The taxi pulled away slowly, and I kept my eyes fixed on the window. My mother remained there, still in the doorway, her apron wrinkled, her eyes swollen. She looked so small, so fragile that, for a moment, the urge to ask the driver to stop nearly took over.
But I took a deep breath and held back the tears.
“Keep going,” I murmured to myself, almost like a prayer. “For her. For both of us.”
The ride to the airport passed in a blur of tangled thoughts and trembling hands. When I stepped out of the car and entered the terminal, the weight of my decision seemed to double on my shoulders. Every step carried me further away from that life, that house… from her.
By the time I was seated on the plane, by the window, the sound of the engines echoed like a reminder that there was no turning back. I fastened my seatbelt, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to steady myself.
That’s when I remembered the small box my mother had placed in my hands before I left.
I carefully took it out of my backpack, as if it were made of glass. The ribbon was slightly loose, the paper a little wrinkled—but I recognized her care in every detail. It was her way of holding on to the little control she still had.
I untied the ribbon slowly and lifted the lid.
Inside was a small homemade cake—my favorite.
The sweet scent hit me instantly, and with it came a flood of memories: me as a child in the kitchen with her, laughing as I licked the spoon covered in batter; her spreading frosting with endless patience, always saying it was “our moment.”
A small note lay folded beside the cake, her handwriting slightly shaky:
“For when the longing gets too strong. I love you, my girl.”
The tears came before I could stop them. I pressed the note against my chest, feeling my heart break—and, at the same time, fill with a new kind of strength.
“I’ll make this work, Mom. I’ll fight for us.”
I closed the box and took a deep breath. As the plane began to taxi down the runway, my gaze fixed on the horizon.
It was the beginning of everything.
***
On the other side of the ocean, in an elegant and silent mansion, Miguel watched the clock with an unreadable expression. Giulia sat on the living room floor, surrounded by colored paper and scattered markers.
“Daddy, help?” she asked, holding up a sheet where, in crooked letters, was written: Welcome, Isa.
Miguel sighed and crouched beside his daughter.
“Of course, sweetheart. Let’s make it nice. She deserves to feel welcome.”
As father and daughter decorated the sign with hearts and little stars, Carmen appeared in the doorway, holding a folder with Isa’s information.
“It’s almost time, Mr. Benites. The house is ready, but… are you?”
Miguel looked at Carmen, then at Giulia, who smiled innocently, and felt the weight of responsibility settle over him.
“I don’t know, Carmen,” he admitted quietly. “But I’ll have to be.”
He lifted the sign with Giulia, forcing a small smile. Isa’s arrival wasn’t just the beginning of a new routine—
it was the beginning of a change he could no longer avoid.
- Writer
