Later, at dinner

Dinner was already laid out when Diego shuffled into the kitchen, still dazed, his sneakers half-untied. The table gleamed, plates neatly set, a pot of arroz steaming in the center with a pan of chicken browned to perfection. The smells tugged at his stomach, but his head swirled too hard to feel hungry.

Valerie moved gracefully between stove and counter, hips swaying slightly as she plated the food. She hummed under her breath, some tune from an old telenovela. Her hands looked younger too, Diego noticed—skin smoothed, knuckles less pronounced, no longer the same ones that had once ink-stained charts and exams.

He sat, his backpack abandoned by the door. “Mom…” His voice cracked again. “What… happened while I was gone? You look—”

Her head tilted, soft curls spilling over her shoulder as she turned to him, lips parted in a placid smile.

“Nada pasó, mijo. Soy tu mamá. Tú estabas en tu viaje, y yo aquí, cuidando la casa.”

<Nothing happened, son. I'm your mom. You were on your trip, and I was here, taking care of the house.>

He tried again in English. “No, listen—you look like… younger. Different. This isn’t… normal.”

The smile faltered only slightly, then steadied, as if she’d rehearsed for this.

“Diego… español.”

<Diego...Spanish.>

He clenched his fork, heat creeping up his neck. “Fine. ¿Qué te pasó, mamá?”

Her hand brushed his wrist with soothing pressure. “No me pasó nada. Estoy bien. Estoy como siempre.”

<Nothing happened to me. I'm fine. I'm the same as always.>

But her eyes darted for a moment—toward the living room.

Chase strolled in then, perfectly timed, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a glass of red wine in hand. His voice carried that effortless mockery, smooth as silk: “He doesn’t recognize his own mother?” He chuckled low, shaking his head as though Diego’s confusion were childish. “Teenagers. Always dramatic.”

Diego shot him a glare. “You—this is you, isn’t it? You’ve done something to her.”

Chase raised his brows, all innocence. “To her? Diego, she’s always been this way. You’ve just been too self-absorbed to notice.” He sipped leisurely, eyes glinting over the rim of the glass. “Look at her—your mother. She’s radiant, isn’t she? She works hard, keeps a beautiful home, cooks like no one else. You should be grateful. And she invited me to join you for dinner.”

Valerie, still standing beside the stove, flushed under the praise. She smoothed her apron and murmured, “Gracias, señor.”

Diego slammed his palm against the table, silverware rattling. “Stop calling him señor! He’s not—he’s not—” His throat tightened. “He’s not family.”

But Valerie only glanced at him with a patient, almost maternal sadness. “Diego… basta. Respeta al señor. Él nos ayuda.”

<Diego… enough. Respect señor. He helps us.>

Nos ayuda. The words struck like a stone in his chest. She wasn’t just changed—she believed it. Believed this life, this subservience, was theirs.

Chase leaned against the doorway, utterly calm, and let Diego’s rage flare against the walls of Valerie’s gentle Spanish corrections. Every protest Diego spat out—“You’re a doctor,” “You’re not thirty-three,” “You’re my mom!”—met only with Valerie’s soft denials and Chase’s silken laughter.

The evening ended with plates scraped clean, Valerie clearing the table while humming, her figure graceful as she moved. Diego sat rigid, watching her, watching him, the lines between nightmare and reality blur.

When she kissed Diego’s forehead goodnight, her lips were soft, her skin smelled of lavender and soap, her voice steady in Spanish:

“Descansa, mi hijo. Mañana estarás mejor.”

<Rest, my son. You’ll be better tomorrow.>

But Diego knew he wouldn’t be.

Diego’s room felt alien when he shut the door. The posters on his wall, the half-finished homework on the desk—his life, untouched. But the life outside? Unrecognizable.

He sat on the edge of his bed, fists pressed against his temples. Images crashed through him like shards: his mother in her white coat, scribbling notes while juggling phone calls, grumbling about long hours at the hospital… her hair pulled back, glasses slipping down her nose, coffee in hand. That was real. That was who she was.

But downstairs—apron, humming, Spanish only, saying nos ayuda about the man Diego knew was responsible.

He dragged out his phone, scrolling frantically through old pictures. Family vacation to Cancún: his mom in sunglasses, forty-two, tired but smiling. Christmas two years ago: her holding him in one arm, Diego half-laughing as she kissed his cheek, crow’s feet showing in the photo. He flipped the screen off, then on again, as if hoping she’d flicker back to the truth.

His chest heaved. He muttered into the darkness, “You’re my mom. Not his maid. Not thirty-three. My mom.”

Sleep didn’t come. Every creak of the house made him think of her moving barefoot in the kitchen, too young, too… different.