My stomach tightened. My mother was strict and cautious, but I believed that if our love was real, I shouldn’t be afraid.
So I brought him home. Santiago wore a white shirt and held a bouquet of marigolds—the flowers I’d mentioned were my mother’s favorite. I held his hand as we walked through the old gate of our house in Tlaquepaque. My mother was watering her plants when she saw us.
Before I could say anything, she rushed toward him, threw her arms around him, and burst into tears.
“Oh my God… it’s you!” she cried. “Santiago!”
The air felt heavy. I stood still, completely lost. My mother clung to him, trembling, while Santiago stared at her in disbelief.
“Are you… Thalía?” he whispered, voice shaking.
My mother lifted her face, nodding desperately.
“Yes… it’s really you. After more than twenty years… you’re alive, you’re here!”
My heart began pounding violently.
“Mom… you know Santiago?”
They both turned to look at me. For a moment, neither spoke. Then my mother wiped her tears and sat down.
“Lina… there is something I must tell you. When I was young, I loved a man named Santiago… and he is that man.”
My chest tightened. Santiago’s face had turned pale. My mother continued, her voice unsteady:
“When I was studying at a technical school in Guadalajara, he had just graduated. We were deeply in love, but my grandparents didn’t approve. They said he had no future. And then… Santiago had an acc:ident, and I lost all contact. I thought he had d:ied…”
