“Hijo de mi vida,” she said, “I’m sorry that you think I’m too strict on you. But I have my reasons. When you’re older—” “You always say that. I’m fifteen. How old do I have to be? How old, Mom, before you think I’m smart enough to get it? I’m not a little boy.” She took my hand and kissed it. “You are to me,” she whispered. There were tears running down her cheeks.
