She sold the house.

She sold the land.

She sold the last tangible memory she had of her husband.

“Where will we live?” Paolo asked quietly.

She inhaled deeply.

“Wherever we have to — as long as you study.”

They moved into a small rented room near the market. The bathroom was shared with other families. The roof leaked during heavy rain.

Teresa washed clothes for neighbors. Cleaned houses in wealthier districts. Continued selling tamales. Took sewing jobs late into the night.

Her hands cracked. Her back ached constantly.

But she never let her sons consider quitting.

YEARS OF DISTANCE

Marco finished first. Paolo followed soon after.

But becoming a commercial pilot required flight hours, certifications, endless training.

The opportunity finally came — overseas.

At the airport in Mexico City, they hugged their mother tightly.

“We’ll come back,” Marco promised.

“When we make it, you’ll be the first person on our plane,” Paolo added.

Teresa smiled through tears.

“Don’t worry about me. Just take care of yourselves.”

And then the waiting began.

Twenty years.

Twenty years of phone calls that sometimes cut out mid-sentence. Voice notes she replayed again and again. Video calls she learned to use with a neighbor’s help.

Twenty birthdays spent alone.

Every time she heard a plane overhead, she would step outside and look up.

“Maybe that’s one of my boys,” she would whisper.

Her hair turned fully white. Her steps slowed. But hope never left her.