Page 138 of Outspoken

His response was:Don’t text me.

He’s back to hating me and only talked to me once to ask if Amber would ever visit. I’m not sure what to do about that. If he’s made a friend in her, I’m happy. It’s only hard on my heart to see her. When she’s close, I get mixed up about where my life is headed and what I truly want. The vision of my future I’ve had since I was young is hazy.

I want my own family and I want Amber, and my heart keeps trying to bridge the gap, to force those wants together with some magical solution.

Regardless of what I’m going through, I’m not trying to keep Amber and Angel apart, so I passed on her number. He can message to say hi if that’s what he wants. I need time to grieve and sort everything out, which might be impossible.

For now, I’m fine being a log. I don’t even have the energy to bike, which I’m sure would perk me up. I mostly lay here on the couch all day not thinking a damn thing. Well, Mom’s constantly on my mind and memories randomly flash in my head as I move through the house. Some make me smile. Others make me break down. I’ve tried to drown it all by watching TV non-stop, but I see too many of her things around that give me flashbacks.

Even though all the reminders are torture, I’m not ready to move anything. The only area I’ve touched is the mantle. I threw every damn candle away and left the saint pictures in the already-crowded garage. I removed family portraits, leaving just one of Mom when she was younger—before the cancer wilted her body.

I switch positions on the couch to stare at the ceiling and a tiny old stain from when there was a water leak. Mom kept telling me to paint it, but I never did. Someday I will.

I sigh. I’m kidding myself. I’m never going to get up there for any fixes. I’ve struggled to sort my life—to achieve everything I’ve hoped for—so why do I think I’ll ever paint that damn stain?

Since I’ve locked myself in my house and stopped interacting with people, friends and family are getting concerned. They say I’m taking Mom’s passing too hard. Maybe I am, but I have the right to.

She was mymom. It’s my right to lie here as many days as I need. The bills are good for a while and Angel has been fine with takeout, though we haven’t talked about school or even if he wants to stay here.

So much to sort.

As I roll onto my side and flip through channels, Angel stalks by in front of the TV. He goes directly to the side table near the door where I stuff my wallet and keys. Without a word, he opens the small wooden drawer, grabs my wallet, and riffles through it. Then he slips out a twenty and pockets it, dropping my wallet and slamming the drawer closed.

I watch blankly. I don’t even care he’s stealing cash—I’d give him some if he asked me. I’m more concerned about why.

Pulling myself up with a groan, I ask, “Where are you going?”

He flashes annoyed eyes at me from under his hoodie. “Why? You my papi?”

I’m too drained to even frown. “You’re taking my cash, so I’m curious.” I check the time on my phone. Almost six in the evening. “If it’s about dinner, I’ll order something.”

He turns the front door knob. “Going for a fucking walk. Chill out.” The door slams behind him.

I heave a sigh and fall back onto the couch. It might be good I’m not a parent. I’d clearly be a bad one, letting my teenage son steal, disrespect me, and run off into the warm summer night.

I glance at Mom’s portrait on the mantle. “I think you were wrong,” I tell her. “I haven’t been able to guide Angel to any new path. I’m not who he needs.”

My only success is that he hasn’t broken anything, but I think that’s because almost everything in my house is Mom’s. She was the one helping him. I’m epically failing.

Maribel is a wonderful mother and evenshecouldn’t influence Angel and his attitude. All I can give him is a safe home, but he still goes out late at night. He might be drinking and smoking, and I know if I push him or get demanding he’ll vanish, which might put him in worse situations.

I have no idea what to do. I’m thinking more and more about a group home. Just as I learned from the situation with Amber, I can’t push someone into what I want. It matters what Angel wants. He clearly doesn’t like being here, but he might feel there’s nowhere else to go. I can help him with options, if that’s what he’s looking for.

With the TV droning in the background, I lay here, wallowing in whatever this is—numbness.

About an hour later, Angel returns carrying several plastic bags. Without acknowledging I exist, he moves to the mantle and starts adding items from the bags.

First, he rummages in a cabinet to find photo albums with pictures of Mom. Some include me and my siblings, others are only her. They’re images that show different periods in her life. He pops a few into the picture frames he brought in, propping others as-is on the mantle. He then adds fresh marigolds, white candles, and incense, followed by a small ceramic sugar skull. The finishing touches to this display include two of Mom’s novels and lots of colorful blue, orange, yellow, and purple papel picado—decorative tissue paper that’s cut in designs and usually hung on strings.

After lighting the new candles and incense, he steps aside, admiring his work.

“Angel…” I barely say, taken back by him building a memorial altar to remember my mom. I’m deeply touched, a bit teary-eyed, and simply without words.

Mom’s voice echoes in my head:“Underneath his pain, he's a good kid.”

Gathering the plastic bags, he scowls at me. “You should’ve had this done. Your mom was a fucking altarista. Don’t you know anything?” Then he leaves down the hallway, slamming his bedroom door.

I stare at this amazing altar that’s now part of the living room, pictures of my angelic mom glowing behind candlelight. Suddenly, she doesn’t feel so distant. Her spirit is back, filling me with warmth and guidance.

---