“We’re all happy. He’s the first baby of the next generation. It’s a big deal.”

“I hope he gets to grow up with his cousins, like you did. I can see myself spoiling all of them. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Hmm, yeah,” is my reply, partly because I don’t think she’d appreciate anything else I’d say about this subject. Her question, though, only reinforces what I already suspected: Staying in DC probably isn’t the best decision for either of us. I need to chart my own course, and she needs to redefine herself as more than someone’s mother. Even now, she’s waiting for me to return home so she can step into the only role she’s ever known. She’s sacrificed so much and for so long that I don’t think she knows how to do or be anything else. She had dreams, though. Before my father. Before me. Before her sisters convinced her that opening the shop would help provide for us all. Now she’s stuck. And if my mother continues to use our relationship as her lodestar, I’m afraid she won’t ever reach for her dreams again. She deserves her own life. Her own happiness too. I want this for her more than anything else.

Yes, my mother and her sisters built the familial village my cousins and I grew up in, and I’m grateful for what they did for us. But Viviane and Mariana fully expect that they’ll eventually pass the leadership to us, whereas my mother appears reluctant to relinquish her caretaking role. And sure, raising kids, whether biological or adopted, isn’t out of the question, but I’m in no rush, and I certainly don’t expect my mother to devote the lion’s share of her time to looking after them.

“Tell me about Dean,” she says, not meeting my eyes as she deftly changes the subject. “He seems sweet.”

“He’s a friend,” I say flatly. “That’s it, Mãe. Don’t get any ideas.”

She draws back and rests her hands on her lap. “So defensive, filha.” She crinkles her nose. “What’s the project you’re working on together?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have a lot of composto.”

I can’t help snorting. “Touché.” I give her the rundown of my and Dean’s exploits, and her mouth gapes in the same way mine did when Dean first proposed his scheme. When I’m done, she shakes her head. “Wow, wow, wow. Que confusão!”

“Believe me, I know.”

“So why can’t he pretend to be your boyfriend when Cláudia comes next weekend? Instead of Brandon?”

I shake my head like a testy parrot. “No, no, no. We have one more date left, then I need to move on.”

“Because you like him,” my mother says as she studies my reaction to her statement.