At four each morning, Teresa was already awake.
She prepared tamales, stirred atole, arranged sweet bread in plastic containers, and carried everything to the neighborhood market. Steam from the atole fogged her glasses. The comal burned her hands. Her feet swelled by noon.
She never complained.
“Oaxacan tamales! Fresh and hot!” she called out with a warmth that disguised exhaustion.
Some days she returned home having sold almost everything. Other days she came back with leftovers — but always with something for her sons to eat before school.
On nights when the electricity was cut for late payments, Marco and Paolo studied by candlelight.
One of those nights, Marco broke the quiet.
“Mom… I want to be a pilot.”
Teresa paused, needle in hand.
Pilot.
The word felt enormous. Expensive. Distant.
“A pilot, son?” she asked softly.
“Yes. I want to fly the big planes… the ones that take off from Mexico City.”
She smiled, though fear stirred inside her chest.
“Then you’ll fly,” she said. “And I’ll help you.”
She already knew aviation school cost more than she could imagine.
When both boys graduated high school and were accepted into an aviation academy, Teresa made the hardest decision of her life.
