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JUNE
Chapter64
Xavier
ME: *Photo attachment
ME: Watching Luis Miguel La Serie doesn’t feel right without you.
ME: I miss you.
Blondie has read your message.
I’m a mess.
I feel like a coward and someone who doesn’t fulfill his promises.
Vio showed me that three weeks ago.
It’s been that long, and she hasn’t responded to a single one of my texts or calls. I want to hear her voice or even communicate with her in some way.
I’m definitely in withdrawal.
Every night I’ve dreamed of her touch, face, lips, and beautiful smile. Not being next to her or even visiting her is agonizing.
I’m back home for two days. I got here last night and passed out on the couch. My eyes meet the bright light from the sun.
Why are the curtains up?
The groan that leaves my lips is a mixture of pain and despair.
“Filho, você dormiu por horas.” My mother’s voice rings in my ears. She’s sitting next to me on the couch.
Our conversation continues in Portuguese. “What time is it?” I’m squinting, looking for my phone, patting the couch down around me.
“It’s two in the afternoon.” She’s scolding me.
I groan. “I’m sorry, Mom, I guess I was tired.”
“You leave tomorrow at twelve.” A pout graces her face.
I know she wants to spend time with me today, but now the day has gone to shit.
“We can go to lunch.” I stand up and kiss her on the forehead, in preparation to leave. She must have been itching to leave this whole day.
My mother is not one to stay inside for too long; she hates lazy days. Since I was little, she always woke me up early so we could do something. The days I was sick, she had to leave the house because she hated every second of staying inside. I thought for the longest time it was because of how small our apartment was, but now I know it’s because of her year of being the daughter of a housekeeper.
Her mom would always leave her at home, making sure the house was upkept or she was cleaning. The only time she was outside was in my biological father’s family house garden.
She grabs my wrist, stopping me from going upstairs to change. “I need to talk to you about a few things.” My mother’s composed face changes from scolding to nervous.
I sit down immediately. My mom hates talking about things with me one on one. It’s only happened three times. The first was her explaining to me our economic situation, the second was what happened between her and my biological father, and finally telling me my real father had died.
Every memory with her has been a happy one except for those three very distinct occasions.
Even though I had a lot of pain and trauma in my childhood, my mom made every second of it worth it. My sense of humor and coping mechanisms are because of her. My work ethic and drive are exactly how she taught me to be.
I owe her my life.
