Mariana said her mother’s laugh.
Laura said her hands.
Julia said the way she sang at night.
Sofia said the smell of her clothes.
Beatriz said her pancakes.
Bianca said her hugs.
Isabela didn’t understand the question.
She simply whispered:
“Mommy.”
Ricardo cried.
The girls cried.
Even the twins became quiet.
Then Mariana said:
“We should make a box.”
“A box?”
“A box of Mom.”
So they did.
They found photographs.
Letters.
Recipes.
A scarf.
A hairbrush.
A dried flower.
An old shopping list.
A birthday card.
And Claris’s handwritten recipe for homemade bread.
For the first time, talking about Claris didn’t feel like forbidden territory.
It felt like remembering.
But there was one problem.
Julia’s panic attacks were getting worse.
One night, she woke screaming.
Ricardo rushed into her room.
“Mommy!”
She was shaking violently.
“I can’t breathe!”
“I’m here.”
“Mommy!”
“I’m here, Julia.”
“No!”
She pushed him away.
