I found my mom in bed one afternoon, limp and sprawled long like a tired thing. Her little TV was on. It was one of those small square kinds with bright-colored slots for red and yellow cables at the bottom.
There are some people at the door, I told her. The same people as last time. They asked for you.
You shouldn’t open the door for strangers, she said. She sighed and tilted her head to the left, giving her a better view of the screen. Her hair pressed against her cheek, sticky from sweat, some strands caught between her lips. I love this episode. It reminds me of when I was little like you, she said. She kept watching and smiled to herself. And I knew for the rest of the day she would only be silent.
Julian Robles is a writer in New York City and a contributing editor for We Do Culture.