JUEVES
10:11 AM

Dahlia Gray

I woke up to the feeling of arms wrapped around my body.

My eyes flutter open as I stir awake, groggily shifting in my bed for a few extra minutes of shut-eye. I couldn't move. The ability to do so feels restricted, boxed in. I looked down and found muscular arms wrap around my waist, pulling my back against the heat of a firm chest.

I go rigid. It takes a few seconds to register what happened last night. The memories of Harlow sneaking into my bedroom floods back to me, of our hour-long conversation and of me, falling asleep with the intent of keeping my distance from him.

Yet, somehow, we ended up closer than ever.

I hear the clearing of a throat and wonder if it came from Harlow, waking up in the morning and realizing what he has done. I mean, I don't want to point fingers, but—I didn't wrap my arms around another person, and I didn't take the initiative to pull said person closer. He did.

That doesn't mean I don't like it, though.

The person clears their throat once more, and I look up to find the source coming from my mother, standing at the foot of the bed.

My eyes widen, my heart rate spikes, and I glance down at the criminalizing scene in front of her. I open my mouth, ready to build a defensive argument, when no words fall through. I was afraid the Latina side of her would make an appearance and scream at him to leave—threatening to throw her chancla if he doesn't get out of the house.

She reveals nothing, and her impassive face turns to me. Her blue eyes spare a short glance at the white boy sleeping beside me, cradling me like I was his personal teddy bear. I would be lying if I didn't say I love the attention, but I was too afraid of what's going to happen next.

I quickly untangle myself from Harlow's grip, slipping out of the bed, and turn to my mother with my hands clamp together. "Mami." I plead, my voice in a mere whisper. "Por favor, no hagas una escena, no hicimos nada, te lo juro, y él sólo estaba aquí porque yo lo necesitaba—." Please do not make a scene, we didn't do anything, I swear to you, and he was only here because I needed him—

She swats my hand away, planting a finger to her lips. I silence under her command, petrified, as her gaze shifts away from me to the boy sleeping soundly on my bed.

She hits his leg. "Wake up."

Harlow begins to stir, and the first thing I notice he did was pat down the space I previously occupied, almost like he was searching for me in his wakening. His eyelids begin to open, peering through one by one, and he yawns. Perfectly oblivious to what's going on.

Then, he spotted my mother.

"Fuck," he swore, pulling himself into a sitting position. I wince, not liking the direction this meeting is heading. Harlow turns to me, seeking help, and I give him a guilty look. "Fuck, am I going to get in trouble for swearing?"

That should be the last of your problems.

I shake my head, rubbing my arm. "She doesn't know English."

"Sé suficiente inglés para entender." I know enough English to understand, my mother remarks, turning to me with a warning. "Solo porque no hable inglés no significa que debas subestimarme. Recuerda eso." Just because I don't speak English doesn't mean I'm underestimated. Remember that.

I nod, but my lips pull into a last-attempt pout. "Mami. Por favor," please, I stress, "Déjalo. Te lo suplico. No hicimos nada. Lo juro. Sólo estaba ahí para consolarme. Por favor, créeme." Let him go. I'm begging you. We didn't do anything. I swear on it. He was only there to comfort me. Please, believe me.

My mother meets my gaze with a stoic expression, not revealing the true intentions behind her stare. She studies me with her bright blue eyes—her gaze falling down to my arms and neck—before she turns back to Harlow, who is watching the situation unfold before him. He kind of looks scared.

"You," my mother points to Harlow, "home. Dahlia's papi do not like."

"Puedo traducir," I can translate, I offer sheepishly. She shakes her head.

"I know I no good English. I am not ashame." My mother said through her broken English, to Harlow and me alike. I was taken back, but remain quiet to listen. "Go."

Harlow nods solemnly, taking the warning, and shuffles out of my bed. He tries to turn to me, but I look down to the floor, can't afford to meet his gaze. He walks towards the bedroom door, reaching out for the doorknob, when my mother grabs his arm.

"No. La ventana." She points to the window, and Harlow grasps the concept. He walks over and leaves the same way he came in.

I suck in a breath, trying to sink in realization of what just happened. My mother didn't beat Harlow black-and-blue or throw her infamous chancla at him. Instead, she told him to leave and exit from the window to not be seen by my father. I guess that's a win.

But I can't stop thinking about the comment I made, and how my mother reacted when I told her I could translate. She stood her ground. She wasn't embarrassed. It really opened my eyes to some things.

"Lo siento," I'm sorry, I mumble to my mother, turning back to her.

"Por qué pides perdón? ¿Por meter a un chicho a tu habitación?" About what? Sneaking a boy into your room?

"Sobre lo que dije," About what I said, I declare, helplessly throwing out my arms. "Siempre pensé que estabas avergonzada de no poder escabullirte al inglés, y cuando dijiste que no lo estabas, me doy cuenta de que me avergonzaba que no pudieras hablar inglés." I always thought you were ashamed that you couldn't sneak English, and when you said you weren't, I realize—I was ashamed that you couldn't speak English.

I've never been ashamed of my identity. I know who I am. I am Venezuelan-American. I was born in Venezuela and moved to America when I was four. I experienced Venezuelan culture through my prime age at the village, and when I came to America, my mother taught me all she knew by the book. I speak Spanish at home, with my mother, and sometimes with my father. I knew I was half-white, and that allowed me to integrate into American culture much easier than my mother did. I had it both ways.

I never realized that I was ashamed my mother couldn't.

"Dahlia." My mother said, sitting at the foot of my bed. She pats to the spot beside her. "Está bien. Siempre supe que al llegar a este país a veintisiete años no podría aprender inglés. No tenía educación, No tenía un diploma de secundaria. Conocía mis restricciones y límites en Estados Unidos. " It's okay. I always knew, coming into this country at twenty-seven, I wouldn't be able to learn English. I had no education, I had no high school diploma. I knew my restrictions and limits in America.

"Yeah." I nod, taking the seat. "Y nunca te avergonzaste. ¿Por qué? " And you were never ashamed. How come?

I don't know when I started crying, I just did. I use both my hands to cover my face, struggling to wipe the tears away. I was upset—angry that I didn't do more. I should've translated more, I should've taught her, I should've accepted that she didn't know English and felt pride for her.

"Dahlia," my mother grabs my hands, stopping me from shamefully wiping away the tears. She takes them into her palms, her gaze met mine with a soft maternal love. "Nunca me avergonzé de no saber inglés, porque te tenía a ti. Tuve una hija, que me hablaba español, y me admiraba como si fuera su mundo. No necesitaba nada más." I was never ashamed of not knowing English, because I had you. I had a daughter, who spoke Spanish to me, and looked up to me like I was her world. I didn't need anything else.

"¿Pero mami, no te sientes sola?" But mom, isn't it lonely?

She nods, wiping away a tear from my face. "Estaba en un país extranjero, solo me visitaba mi marido un par de veces a la semana, y tuve que criar a una niña por mi cuenta. ¿Cómo pude haberme no sentido sola?" Of course, how could it not? I was in foreign country, only visited by her husband a couple weeks at a time, and had to raise a little girl by myself. How was it not?

"¿Cómo sobreviviste?" How did you survive? I said, squeezing her hands, taking in her touch.

"Para tí. Sobrevivo para ti." For you. I survive for you.

She doesn't say anything else, and she didn't have to. I lean forward and pull my mother into a hug, embracing her and taking in all the love she has ever sacrificed for me. I wanted this to tell her how much I love her, and appreciate her, and how I would do anything for her.

Because I would.

I love her so much and she's the epitome of my universe. She's my superhero, my best friend, and the person that raised me. I love her in every form she comes in.

My mother returns the gesture and pulls me back into a hug, wrapping her arms around me and dropping me in her scent. I'm crying, tears are running into the fabric of her shirt, but she doesn't care. I don't either. I just need her to know I love her the way she is.

We pull apart minutes later, and she wipes the tears from my face. I looked at her, and smiled through the streams of tears, and it was genuine.

She grabs my hands again. "Quiero hablarte de algo." I want to talk to you about something.

I nod, willing to listen and bid all my attention to her. "Primero, tenemos que hablar de los límites y las reglas en la casa, para traer a un chico." First, we need to talk about boundaries and the rules in the house, for bringing a boy over.

My skin flusters at the mention of Harlow, but I nod in understanding. "Pero, antes de eso, quiero disculparme contigo." But, before that, I want to apologize to you.

My brows furrow, "¿Por qué?"

She sucks in a deep breath. "Siento mucho no haber contestado cuando llamaste. Apagué mi teléfono, completamente ajena al hecho de que podría haber una emergencia." I'm so sorry for not picking up when you called. I shut off my phone, completely obvious to the fact that there might be an emergency.

"It's fine." I said, waving my hand dismissively. "¿Dónde estabas?" Where were you?

She gives me a sheepish smile, wiping another tear falling down my cheek. "Estaba en la iglesia." I was at church.

I pause, not believing what I just heard. "¿Iglesia?" Church?

"Iglesia." Church, she confirms. "Encontré una iglesia católica hispana en el centro, y estoy empezando a volver a la iglesia. Es un comité tan acogedor, y lo extraño mucho." I found an Hispanic Catholic church downtown, and I'm starting to go back to church. It's such a welcoming committee, and I miss it so much.

I'm surprised.

The last time my mother went to church was before she came to America, finalizing her marriage with my father. Religion has always been an important aspect of Venezuela, and my mother keeps her faith close to her heart.

But she always prayed in secret, in solitary.

My father is a self-proclaimed Christian, but he doesn't go to church or visit sacred grounds. He gives his faith to God, but he never offered himself to God. My mother kind of...stopped going to churches after feeling like she was the only person in this household to keep the Lord by her side.

"Yo—wow, chevere. " I—wow, okay.

She laughs, and a smile brims her lips. "Lo sé, la idea es ridícula y no sabía cómo actuar. Casi olvido lo que se sentía estar cerca de gente que no sean tú o tu padre." I know, the idea is ludicrous and I didn't know how to act. I almost forgot what it felt like to be around people who aren't you or your father.

I smile, but the thought was depressing. Sometimes, I forget that my mother is watered down to just being a housewife and a mother. Nothing more, nothing less.

She doesn't have any friends here, she doesn't communicate with her family in Venezuela. She's isolated, alone, if not for us.

That's probably why it's harder for her to leave, I excuse in my head, so she won't be alone.

"Eso es genial, mamá, me alegro por ti." That's great, mom, I'm happy for you.

She nods, smiling in excitement, and wraps her arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer to her. She began to tell me about her day at church yesterday, and telling me how she prayed to God for this food poisoning to heal.

I nod, and listen to her day. Though, I don't agree with the religion and I don't find myself to be the type of person who partakes in a faith that consumes me—my mother does. And if it's something to give her happiness, who am I to say no?