Diego's weekend

Saturday Morning

Diego wakes to the familiar sounds of the apartment — but something is immediately off. His mom, usually precise and measured as Dr. Valeria, moves with a quiet, domestic rhythm. She is tidying the living room, folding laundry, polishing surfaces. Her gestures are deliberate, almost ritualistic.

She greets him in Spanish, her tone soft, cheerful, and deferential:

“Buenos días, Diego. ¿Dormiste bien?”

(“Good morning, Diego. Did you sleep well?”)

Diego freezes, staring at her. His mind races — this isn’t the woman he knew. Her speech, the lightness in her voice, the domestic focus… it all feels foreign yet intimately familiar.

“Val…Valerie?” he stammers, testing the new name. She nods, smiling gently, as if confirming his question is unnecessary.

He flinches internally. She’s answering to another name, speaking another language, moving with an energy entirely unlike his mother. He wonders if this is some kind of nervous breakdown, or worse, a mental collapse.

Saturday Afternoon

Valerie continues her chores. She dusts shelves, organizes kitchenware, and prepares a simple lunch for them both. She hums softly — Spanish phrases from telenovela songs or simple domestic tunes. Diego watches silently, alternating between fascination and horror.

Every time she speaks in Spanish, he feels a growing emotional and linguistic gap between them.

He tries to engage her in English, asking casual questions about the week, her day, her work as a doctor — but she answers slowly, translating internally, or sidesteps with gentle politeness.

Diego begins to realize that this isn’t temporary confusion. Her old professional self seems almost entirely gone. Even memories of her authority, medical knowledge, and maternal guidance feel like faint, distant echoes.

Saturday Evening

Valerie sets the table for dinner, arranging plates and utensils with care. She moves efficiently, almost ritualistically, yet the warmth in her manner is unmistakable.

Diego struggles to connect with her. He feels anxiety and fear, mixed with a strange, unsettling intrigue. She is his mother — yet not. The emotional dissonance gnaws at him.

He wonders aloud:

“Mom… are you okay? Did something… happen at work?”

Valerie tilts her head, offering a small, serene smile:

“Estoy bien, Diego. Solo estoy haciendo mi trabajo, asegurándome de que todo esté en orden.”

(“I’m fine, Diego. I’m just doing my work, making sure everything is in order.”)

Her calm, almost radiant composure unnerves him further. She doesn’t acknowledge the past life as Valeria — it might as well not exist.

Sunday

Diego wakes early, heart pounding. Valerie is already moving through the apartment, tidying, polishing, humming softly. Her domestic rituals are now unmistakably habitual, fully internalized.

He sits at the kitchen table, observing her carefully. Each gesture, each whispered Spanish phrase, each carefully folded cloth reinforces the reality: his mother has fundamentally changed.

He tries to speak about family, weekend plans, or old routines, but she answers in Spanish again, politely and without hesitation. Her patience and gentle insistence in her new role create a subtle tension — Diego feels like an intruder into a life he no longer fully understands.

By midday, he begins to question her mental state seriously. Maybe she’s had a breakdown. Maybe it’s stress. Maybe… something else. The thought unsettles him.

At the same time, there is an uncomfortable fascination — her attentiveness, her grace, her quiet pride in domesticity are almost mesmerizing. Diego feels torn between worry, shock, and an inexplicable, uneasy intrigue.