NIKOLINA
THIRTEEN YEARS LATER — SPAIN
THREE HOURS BEFORE THE CALL
At thirteen, I know that later is an adult word for I hope you stop asking.
Mom has said it three times since I came home from school.
First, when I ask why she has not changed out of the clothes she wore to Girona this morning. Then, when I notice the official envelope on the kitchen table. The third time comes after I catch her staring at the silver ring around my neck.
“Later,” she says again.
I drop my backpack beside the chair. “You’re running out of laters.”
Usually that makes her smile. Today, she presses both hands around a cup of coffee she has not touched.
Outside our apartment, the late-afternoon sun turns the Mediterranean white at the edges. Tourists are still crowding the promenade, and someone below i
