For five years we sent money almost every month. I sent forty thousand pesos. Mela sent between twenty-five and fifty thousand. Miggy too, always consistent. Bonuses, extras, everything we could. In my mind, Mom lived comfortably, with a decent house, enough food, and no worries. That's what I thought.
We took a taxi to the east side of Mexico City. We talked about plans and celebrations. We discussed the latest transfers, birthdays, Christmas. We calculated that in five years we had sent more than three million pesos. Mom deserved it for everything she had sacrificed for us.
But something started to feel wrong. The streets got narrower. The houses were made of sheet metal and wood. There were children playing in the mud. It was nothing like the neighborhood we had imagined. The taxi stopped, and when we got out, we felt the heat, the dust, and the smell of sewage. Something inside me tightened.
I asked an elderly woman if Florencia Santillán lived there. When we said we were her children, the woman cried and asked why we had taken so long. She told us to get ready. We ran without thinking.
The house was a shack about to collapse, with no door, just an old curtain. Mela went in first and screamed. There was Mom, lying on a straw mat, so thin she looked like nothing but skin and bones. When she recognized me, I thought my heart was going to break.
There was no food. Just a can of sardines. Mom said she had eaten bread the day before. It was already two in the afternoon. Miggy was trembling with rage. I couldn't breathe properly.
