Page 71 of Dina's Favorite Mistake

With an aggrieved sigh, her mother added sugar and milk to the cups of coffee. She took the cup and saucer offered to her and one of the little silver spoons. She gave it a stir, watching the coffee swirl and turn a creamy caramel shade. As she let her coffee cool, she waited for her mother to offer some more unwanted advice but none came.

Before she’d fallen asleep, Camila had been scrolling TikTok while the framed television across the room played a soothing fireplace loop. Sitting with her mother and daughter, drinking coffee and contemplating, felt like a novelty. They didn’t often have quiet moments alone like this. Back home, even in that massive mansion, they seemed to always be surrounded by other people. There was no privacy, no time to simply sit in silence and contemplate together.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“I doubt it.” Her mother rolled her eyes in the exact same way Camila did, and Dina smothered a laugh. “All right. Tell me then.”

“I never blamed you. For any of it.” Her mother placed her cup back on its saucer with a clink that betrayed her nerves.

Realizing her mother was anxious, Dina kept quiet and waited to see what else she wanted or needed to say. She’d been practicing listening more, waiting to hear what the other person had to say before jumping in with a comment or a solution. Her therapist had been clear that she needed to learn to hold space for others.

So. Here she was, in Paris, with her daughter asleep next to her and her mother trying to find the right words. Holding space. Listening. Being present.

“I never blamed you,” Soila repeated. “I blamed myself.”

Taken aback, Dina’s lips parted. She started to speak but remembered her therapist’s counsel.Listen. Be present. Wait.

“I should have been a better mother to you,” her mother continued, still not making eye contact. “I should have stepped in and gotten rid of him when you two first started dating.”

“Got rid of him?” She couldn’t hold her tongue after that remark.

“Money,” her mother clarified. “I should have paid him to go away.”

“He would have only come back for more.”

“That’s exactly what your father said.”

“Did he?” Dina felt such sadness hearing that.

“He thought we should let you make mistakes.”

“And Abuelo?” Dina held her breath as she waited for an answer she was certain would sting.

“He thought we should have handled it theold way.” Soila drew her finger across her throat. “Bury him in a field and call it a day.”

Dina wanted to be shocked that her grandfather would suggest murder, but he was part of a different generation and a different time. She shuddered to think how many problems her grandfather and great-grandfather and all her other ancestors had buried out in those fields.

“I blamed myself, Dina. I still blame myself.” Her mother sighed heavily and removed her glasses. She slowly rubbed her eyes and shook her head. “I was so mad at myself for letting Diego ruin our family. I was so angry that I hadn’t acted to protect you and Camila and the rest of our family.”

“But you never said anything,” Dina said, floundering in her emotions. “You wouldn’t even speak to me after—.”

“It was wrong of me, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t open my mouth without sobbing. I was filled with grief and rage and despair.”Soila slipped her glasses back into place. “I didn’t trust myself to say anything to you. I knew if I opened my mouth the wrong words would come tumbling out, and I’d shatter what little was left of you. You were so fragile, and I couldn’t risk it.”

Memories of the hours and days and weeks following the murders of her father and grandfather flashed before her eyes. All those stiff interactions. Her mother leaving the room anytime she entered. The cold shoulder. The mask of indifference.

“I thought you hated me,” Dina finally confessed. “I thought you wanted me dead instead of them.”

“Never! You’re my daughter! I love you! But I failed you and let you get hurt.”

“You didn’t!”

Her mother waved her hand. “We can argue about this until we’re blue in the face. I failed you, Dina.”

Sitting there, taking in her mother’s confession, Dina sagged against the sofa. Confused. Twisted. Heartbroken. “All that time—”

“I wanted to make it right. I kept trying, but I didn’t have the right words. I didn’t know how to tell you that I was sorry. I didn’t know how to bridge that gulf between us. It just kept growing and growing. It became easier to ignore it. To let it be and hope we could move on,” her mother admitted.

“I could have said something.” There was enough blame to go around, and there was no reason for her mother to shoulder all of it. “I should have made an attempt to fix things instead of letting this fester for more than a decade.”

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