Doña Consuelo was blind, seventy years old, and had lived her entire life believing that motherhood meant endurance without complaint.
The phone slipped slightly in her trembling hand as she listened to her son’s voice on the other end of the line—calm, firm, final.
“I already sold the land, Mom,” Mauricio said. “You have three days to leave.”
“What are you saying, my son? That land is our home. I raised you there. I washed clothes there to pay for your school.”
