“Your father did not die because of you, Marianita.

Do you hear me?

Not because of you.”

Those were the first words my mother spoke to me as herself, as the fog of twenty years finally came apart inside her mind.

I was still sitting on the sidewalk, my knees bleeding, my whole body ringing from the truck and from the sound of that name.

She reached out and took my face in her rough, calloused hands, and her eyes — I will never forget it — her eyes were clear.

The lost, distant gaze of the nameless woman from the bus stations was simply gone.