Because what I’m going to ask you, dear, just one thing, only one, look, at my age there’s one thing I’ve learned, one thing I dare tell you, only one, and her words are: don’t stay single, my little one, don’t end up all alone. I don’t know if it’s the repetition of the word one that sounds like a sickening reverberation that makes my stomach churn or the diminutive that irritates my gastritis, or my mom’s trembling eye while she says that solemn little phrase, but it feels like all the disgust of the day is swirling in my stomach—the bread, the butter, the sweaty hands, the trash can overflowing with dirty paper, the egg white on the bread my mom eats for breakfast, or a smell coming from I don’t know where. I run to the bathroom and while I vomit I lock the door with the certainty that my mom will try to help me and will ask how can I help you, my girl, coming in and grabbing my forehead and then asking if I drank last night, but I’ve already locked the door so when she tries to enter she can’t, she still says, from outside, her face pressed to the door, can I help you, my girl? Are you OK? Did you drink last night? And I just answer that something I ate isn’t sitting right, no, Mommy, I’m not hungover, and then I wipe my mouth, flush the water that had bile and something that was surely the crust, the only thing I’ve eaten, and come out of the bathroom. I avoid my mom’s hug, avoid her touching me, avoid thinking about the extreme stupidity of what she’s told me and that I will surely never forget, and I say Mommy, I need to borrow money to go to Spain, to which she says of course, sweetie, whatever you need, and I say thank you, I’ll use the credit card. Then I leave her house alleging I’m late for a meeting. Once in the elevator, I feel like everything is lighter. I’m leaving. I’m getting away from everything. In the elevator, I think the impulse of gratitude that brought me to see my mom was correct, that I’m thankful for her because her words or her gestures always make it so that I make the most visceral decisions. Sitting in front of her, watching her eat her warm eggs, it occurred to me that my only option was to leave, that I’m terrified of her solitude and her life and that I love her so much I find it unbearable to have her close without feeling the need to make her happy or blame her for everything, that it’s even impossible to listen to her without her words killing me. So everything unfolds as it must, beautiful mother of mine. I cannot, as much as she would like, give her the child or, alternatively, get married and be happy. Too much for both of us to bear the bliss.