My name is Josefina Morales, I’m 52 years old, and I have a secret that no one knows, not even my family or my former employers. I can’t keep it quiet any longer, because what’s kept inside eventually burns like hot coals.

My name is Josefina Morales, I’m 52 years old, and I have a secret that no one knows, not my family, not my former employers. I can’t keep it quiet any longer, because what’s kept inside eventually burns like hot coals…

I was born in Cuautla, Morelos, in one of those small adobe houses with a tin roof. My dad was a baker, one of those old-fashioned ones who would get up at 3 in the morning to prepare everything.

My mother was a stay-at-home mom with five children and a patience I never inherited. I’m the fourth of five, and from a young age, I was always the one who helped the most, not because I was good at it, but because I had no other choice. I had to drop out of school in middle school because my father got sick, and we couldn’t afford it anymore. I went to work cleaning houses and babysitting in Cuernavaca. That’s where I met Gerardo, the father of my children.

He was a driver at one of the houses where I worked. At first, everything was wonderful, you know, promises, dreams, plans you think will actually come true. We got together when I was 20, and a year later my oldest son, Luis, was born. Two years later, my daughter, Carmen, arrived. But Gerardo wasn’t what he seemed. He was jealous, sexist, and suddenly violent. Not physically, but his words hurt so much. He always told me I was worthless, that without him I’d starve, that the children were his.

I endured it for five years, five years of shouting, humiliation, and silent tears. Until one day I couldn’t take it anymore. I left with my children to go to my mother’s house, and he never came back for them. That’s when the hardest part began: being a single mother, penniless, with two children who depended on me. I did what I could: cleaning houses, selling gelatin, washing other people’s clothes. But it was a daily struggle, and the children were growing up and needed more things—uniforms, shoes, notebooks—and I didn’t know how to stretch the day to make it all work.

One day a neighbor told me that her cousin had gone to the United States and was earning in a week what we earned here in two months. I didn’t think twice. I only remember that I didn’t sleep that night. I lay down next to my children, hugged them tightly, and cried. I cried softly so as not to wake them, but I cried with my whole body. The following week I was already looking for ways to leave. I got a temporary work visa to care for an elderly woman in San Jose, California.

A woman who knew a family there got it for me. It was only for six months, supposedly. Six months. That’s what I kept telling myself. Before I left, I talked to my mom. I asked her to keep my children while I worked and saved money. I remember what she said. “Go, daughter, but promise me you’ll come back soon. Don’t let money steal your children away from you.” And I swore to her that I would, that it was only six months, that I wouldn’t let that happen, but it did.

When I arrived in San José, everything impressed me: the houses, the cars, the cleanliness, the parks, even the air smelled different. The woman who took care of me was named Nancy. She had Alzheimer’s. Sometimes she didn’t know who I was, other times she mistook me for her daughter. She spoke to me in English, and I just smiled because I understood almost nothing. At first, it was incredibly difficult. I didn’t know anyone, I had no one to hug, I couldn’t speak properly. I felt like a shadow.

I would go to work, return to the room I rented, cry, fall asleep, and do that every day. But I started sending money. After two months, I was able to send $300 every two weeks. My mom told me that was enough for food, school supplies, and shoes, and that gave me strength. The six months flew by, and when it was time to go back, Nancy became very ill. Her daughter offered me a longer stay with more pay. She told me, “Josefina, if you stay, we can work something out for you here.”

“Don’t worry, you’re doing a wonderful job.” And I thought of my children, their little faces, school, the future, and I agreed to stay. That’s when the real sacrifice began. The years slipped away. I worked in that house for seven years. Then the lady passed away, and her daughter recommended me to another family, always doing the same thing: cleaning, cooking, caring, always with my head down, afraid of immigration, with that emptiness in my chest, because even though I ate, slept, and breathed, something was missing.

And what I was missing were them, Luis and Carmen. I’d see them on video calls for birthdays, at Christmas. I’d buy the gifts online and send them from here, but it wasn’t the same, it never was. I’d smile for the camera, but when we hung up, I’d break down. I’d stare at my phone, turned off, as if I could see them again if I really concentrated. They grew up without me. Luis became quiet, very quiet. He always answered me with few words. Carmen was more affectionate, but over the years she also drifted away.

They stopped telling me anything, stopped asking me anything, they just thanked me for the money and said a quick goodbye. And I understood that I was becoming a stranger to them, that in my attempt to give them everything, I had taken away the most important thing: a present mother. But I kept going because I was afraid of going back and having nothing, because here I had a routine, a secure job, because I told myself I was doing it for them.

Until one day the phone rang. But I’ll tell you about that later. Back in San José, everything was so different. From the very first year, my life became a routine that never changed. I woke up at 5 a.m. every single day, even on Sundays. My body just got used to it. I’d get up, make myself a coffee and some bread—sometimes just bread because I didn’t want to spend money—and walk to the house where I worked. Fifteen minutes exactly.

The family I worked for were good people, yes, but they always saw me as the helper. I was never Josefina, I was always her, the one who cleaned, the one who cooked, the one who did the dishes. I didn’t say anything because, what could I say? It was better than being unemployed. They never treated me badly, but they didn’t treat me like a person either, and you just accept it. Little by little, without even realizing it. Mondays were the hardest. Cleaning bathrooms, vacuuming carpets, doing laundry, ironing, tidying the kitchen.

Sometimes my feet hurt so much I had to sit on the toilet for a little while just to bear it. But I didn’t say anything, I just gritted my teeth. I remember my toes were always dry, with cracked nails, because the cleaning products are so strong. But I never wore gloves; I felt they slowed me down. At midday, they gave me an hour for lunch. I brought my food in a little container: rice with egg or soup with beans.

I ate in the back of the house, in the little garden. Sometimes I’d just stare at the sky. Sometimes I’d start thinking about Cuautla, about the smell of tortillas in the morning, about the warmth of my mother’s house, and my eyes would well up, but only for a little while. Then I’d wipe them off and keep going. Because there’s no time to be sad there. If you fall, no one picks you up. Wednesdays were light days, according to them, but for me, they were all the same.

Going to the market, making special meals if they had visitors, cleaning the children’s room, mopping the hallways. I cooked everything for them; I learned to make American food, but they also loved my enchiladas and my red rice. Sometimes the lady would say to me, “Josefina, today cook like you do in Mexico, we love that special flavor of yours.” And that gave me a little joy. I felt that something of mine still mattered. Fridays were the days for washing everything: sheets, towels, curtains.

I was exhausted by the end of the day. By the time I left, it was already night. The cold chilled me to the bone, but I felt colder inside than out because I’d get to my room and be all alone. A tiny room with a bed, a small table, and a fan. I didn’t have a TV, just my cell phone, and that’s how I connected to the world. Sometimes I’d talk to my mom; she’d tell me that Carmen had a boyfriend, that Luis was working at a hardware store. I’d listen to everything in silence, just saying, “That’s great, Mom, I’m happy for you.” But inside, I felt like she was telling me her whole life story.

From someone else’s point of view, as if those boys weren’t mine anymore, as if I were just a distant aunt who finds out about things. And then came the hardest part: the video calls. On Sundays at 8 p.m., the three of us would talk. It was Mom’s night, as my daughter used to say, but over the years it became routine too. They didn’t tell me as much anymore. They laughed among themselves, told me everything was fine, that I shouldn’t worry.

I would see them and my heart would ache because I realized they didn’t need me anymore, that they had learned to live without me. Once, in a phone call, Carmen said to me, “Mom, why don’t you just stay there forever? We’re all grown up here.” And she didn’t say it angrily, she said it with that coldness that hurts even more, as if she had already accepted that her mother was never coming back. That night I cried myself to sleep.

I remember that at that time I had already been there for more than 15 years. 15 years. Almost half of my adult life, and I had nothing. I had no papers, no insurance, no house of my own, no partner, no children. I had money, yes, but what good was it if I couldn’t hug anyone? If every Christmas I spent alone heating tamales in the microwave, looking at the photos people sent me on WhatsApp, and even then I stayed because I was afraid to go back and not know what to do, because there you become like a piece of furniture.

Moreover, you get used to the routine, the silence, to no one calling you by your name, to not celebrating your birthday, to the fact that your sadness is all you have. Once, a colleague, Lucía from Puebla, asked me if I ever thought about going back. I told her yes, but that I no longer knew if I had anywhere to return to. She answered with something that stuck with me. José, sometimes you leave for so long that when you return, there’s no one waiting for you.

And that left me frozen, because it was true. I no longer knew if my children wanted me to come back, if they saw me as their mother or as a woman who sent money. I no longer knew if they were mine or just memories, but I still got up every day and went to work because time doesn’t wait for you there, because if you stop, you fall. And I didn’t want to fall. Not there, not alone. Until that phone rang.

Being a long-distance mom is like wanting to hug with your hands tied, like wanting to be there but not being able to touch, not being able to smell your children, not being able to hear their laughter in person, only through calls, only through photos, only through memories. At first, I tried to be present as much as I could. When I arrived in the United States, I sent them letters. Yes, letters, because they didn’t even have cell phones at my mom’s house. I wrote to them in my crooked handwriting, with a blue pen, on paper I bought at the pharmacy.

I would show them drawings, tell them what I saw on the street, what I ate, what I dreamed about. I told them I missed them, that they were my driving force, that I was doing everything for them. I remember when they answered me for the first time. Luis drew me a little car with his name on it, and Carmen sent me a heart made of crayons. I cried like a child when I opened that envelope. I kept it for many years until I lost it in a move, but I have it etched in my memory perfectly.

Later, as time went on, we started talking on the phone. My mom had an old cell phone, but it worked. I would talk to them once or twice a week. I would ask them how they were, what they were eating, how school was going. Carmen always told me more—that she liked a song, that the teacher scolded a boy, that she dreamed I was coming back. Luis was quieter. He’s always been like that, but when he would say, “I miss you, Mom,” it broke my heart.

And so they grew up. I sent them everything I could: clothes, toys, backpacks, books, nice shoes. Every December I sent them boxes full of everything. I wrote them a letter, included candy, something that smelled like me, anything. And I would sit in front of the phone waiting for the day of the video call to see their faces when they opened the presents. But I also began to notice that they didn’t need me as much anymore, that my voice didn’t excite them as much, that their lives went on with or without me.

When Carmen turned 15, I wanted to send her everything so she could have a beautiful party. I sent her the dress, the shoes, I ordered the cake from here, I even paid a friend in Cuautla to take pictures and send them to me. That day I got myself ready as if it were a wedding. I put on a blouse I liked, did my hair, put on a little makeup, and sat in front of the computer to watch her on a video call. I watched her dance with my brother, her escort.

I watched him blow out the candles, I saw him get hugs, and I saw him wave to me on the screen, saying, “Thank you, Mom.” It was all very beautiful, but his eyes didn’t have the emotion I expected, and that hurt me more than if he had yelled at me, because I understood that I was no longer his center, that I was his mom, but from a distance, like a memory that helps, but doesn’t truly connect with him. Luis didn’t even want a party. He told me he’d rather I send him the money to buy a used motorcycle, and he bought one.

I never saw her in person, only in photos. I never knew if she was safe, I just trusted her. And so time slipped away. I watched them grow, how their voices changed, their faces, the way they spoke, how they stopped calling me “Mom” and started calling me “Ma.” How they talked to me less? They told me less, asked me fewer questions, and I smiled, pretended everything was fine, but inside I felt myself drifting further away, as if every dollar I sent built another wall between us.

Luis once told me, “You don’t know what it’s like to live without Mom.” He said it without anger, with sadness, with that heavy truth. I just told him, “Me neither, son. I need you too.” And I regretted saying it because I felt I had no right, that they had more reason to be sad than I did. And of course I tried to go back. I tried once. It was when Carmen had her first child. Yes, I’m a grandmother now. But even that wasn’t enough for me to make the decision.

I was afraid. Afraid to arrive and not be recognized. Afraid they’d see me as an intruder. Afraid the baby would call me “ma’am” instead of “grandma.” And besides, I no longer had papers. Leaving was easy, getting back in impossible. So I stayed, clinging to that routine, that job, those calls where I just asked how they were and they’d answer, “Fine, Mom, everything’s fine.” And that’s how my life slipped away. With birthdays via video call, with news through texts, with imagined hugs.

Sometimes I’d sit on my bed at night and wonder if it had all been worth it. If all those years of working like a dog, sending money, enduring loneliness, had truly helped my children. If I’d given them a future or if I’d taken something away that could never be recovered, because money can buy many things, but it can’t buy back lost time. And I lost so much, so much, until one day the phone rang again, but this time something had changed.

It was a Tuesday, I’ll never forget, Tuesday at 10:17 in the morning. I was cleaning the dining room windows when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I pulled it out quickly because it wasn’t normal for someone to call me at that hour. My children almost always texted me in the afternoon, after work or when they had a little free time, but not this time. This time it was a call. I saw the name on the screen, Luis. My heart started racing.

I remember clearly that the rag slipped from my hands and fell to the floor. I answered without thinking, my hands still wet. “Well, son, is everything alright?” On the other end, there was noise as if he were in the street, but he didn’t answer, he was just breathing. “Luis, what’s wrong, my love? Are you okay?” Then he said, his voice breaking, “Mom, Grandma’s gone.” I couldn’t breathe, like someone had dunked my head underwater.

I didn’t hear anything else, just a ringing in my ears. My body froze. I almost dropped the phone. I sat down on the floor right there, not caring that it was dirty, not caring about anything. That was all I could manage to say. She got sick last night, she didn’t wake up. The doctor said it was her heart. She didn’t suffer, Mom, she didn’t suffer. And that’s when I broke down. My mom, the woman who had raised my children, the one who had my back for almost 20 years, the one who sent me blessings with every call, the one who told me that

She would take care of me from the cold, the one who always told me, “Come on, daughter, you’ve done your part.” That woman was gone, and I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there when she felt ill. I wasn’t there when they took her to the hospital. I wasn’t there when she took her last breath. I wasn’t there. And that, that I will never forget. Luis told me that everyone was fine, that I shouldn’t worry, that they were already holding the wake at home, that Carmen was with her baby, that he was with them.

But all I could think was, why wasn’t I there? I hung up and lay there on the floor like a stone. I didn’t cry then. I couldn’t. I felt empty, like my soul had been ripped out. After an hour, I got up, went to the lady of the house, and told her I needed to go out, that there was a family emergency. She looked at me with a puzzled expression, as if she didn’t understand. She said nothing more than, “Okay, take the day off.” And I left.

I went for a walk, aimlessly, just walking. The streets of San José seemed colder than ever. People walked past me with their coffees, their headphones, their dogs, as if nothing was wrong. And there I was, carrying my mother’s death alone in my chest. I didn’t sleep that night. I sat on the bed with the light off and cried. I cried with my whole body, with my throat, with my teeth clenched. It wasn’t just for my mom, it was for everything: for the years, for the hugs I didn’t give her, for the times she told me she wanted to see me, for the last Christmas when she said, “Next year I hope you’ll be here.” And I wasn’t.

And the worst part was that I couldn’t go. If I left, I wouldn’t be able to come back. And even though I was dying to be there, I was terrified of leaving everything I had here: my job, my rent, my years, everything that had cost me so much. But what was worth more? The next day I spoke with Carmen. She was more composed than I was. She told me that Grandma seemed at peace, that many people had come to say goodbye, that everyone was asking about me. And then she told me what broke my heart.

Mom, you can’t keep living there alone. You’re missing out on everything. I didn’t say anything because I knew she was right. She continued. My son is going to grow up without knowing you. I don’t want that. I don’t want you to be just a voice on the phone like you were with us. No, not again, Mom, please. And I was speechless because that sentence pierced me like a knife. How were you with us? She had said it without malice, without anger, but it was true. I was a voice, I was money, I was memories, I wasn’t a mother of flesh and blood, I wasn’t a presence, I wasn’t a hug.

And that’s when, for the first time in almost 20 years, I started thinking about leaving everything. I spent days, weeks, thinking about it. Every night I wondered if I still had anything there, if my children would accept me, if my grandson would call me Grandma, if it would be too late, if I would regret it. But I also wondered if it made sense to stay here working for others in a country where I’d always been invisible. My mother’s death was the blow that opened my eyes and also the one that made me realize I couldn’t wait any longer.

That’s when the hardest decision of my life began. After the call telling me my mother had died, something broke inside me. But it wasn’t all at once; it was like a crack that slowly widened. It started that very night and grew bigger every day, as if I couldn’t breathe anymore, as if everything that had once given me strength no longer had any meaning. In the days that followed, I went to work like a ghost.

I did everything on autopilot: cleaning, cooking, sweeping. But I wasn’t there. My mind was far away in Guautla, in the house where I grew up, in my mother’s bedroom, in the kitchen where she taught me to make rice, in the patio where we hung our laundry together—in everything that was gone forever. And at the same time, I felt a fear that gripped my chest, because starting to think about going back wasn’t just any old thing; it meant leaving behind everything I had built.

Yes, it wasn’t much, but it was mine: my room, my things, my job, my routine. And even though I never felt completely happy there, I was afraid to go back and not know who I was. I didn’t tell anyone, not my children, not my coworkers. I just thought about it in silence. I asked myself questions I didn’t know how to answer. What if they don’t want me there anymore? What if I go back and can’t find a job? What if I get sick and can’t afford a doctor?

What if Carmen doesn’t need me anymore? What if Luis still resents me? But then there was the other thing. What if I miss another important moment? What if my grandson grows up and doesn’t know who I am? What if I die here alone and no one ever finds out? What if I don’t have enough time to make up for what I’ve lost? One night after work, I sat down at the table with my old notebook, the one where I used to write down all the money I sent, and I started to write—not numbers, but words.

I wrote down everything I had done in those 19 years. How much I sent orders, how many times I cried, how many times I wanted to go back, how many times I held back. I wrote down everything I had left behind: Christmases without them, the parties I missed, the illnesses I kept quiet about, the hugs I lacked, and finally, I wrote it in big letters. Now what? I stared at it for a long time, then closed the notebook and said to myself quietly, “That’s enough, Josefina.” That same week I spoke with Carmen.

“Honey, I need to talk to you seriously,” I said. She was silent. Then she said, “Are you coming?” I didn’t know what to say. I felt the words get stuck in my throat, but then, as if someone else were speaking for me, I blurted it out. “Yes, honey, I’m coming back.” She was quiet for a moment. Then she started to cry. Mom, you have no idea how long I waited for that. I cried then too, but not from sadness. I cried with fear, yes, but also with relief.

As if I had finally made the right decision, as if I were finally choosing something for myself, not just out of necessity. I didn’t sleep that night. I spent it thinking about everything I had to do: pack, decide what to take, who to give my things to, talk to the lady to tell her I was leaving, find a ticket, and above all, prepare myself for what I was going to find there. I was afraid to see Luis, afraid of seeing reproach in his eyes, afraid he would look at me like a stranger, afraid he wouldn’t hug me.

With Carmen it was different; she was always more open, warmer, but with him, things were harder. I texted him; I didn’t dare call him. “Son, I’m coming back. I don’t know how it’s going to be, but I want to try. Forgive me if I took so long.” He didn’t reply right away. Three days passed—three that felt like three years—and then he sent me a short message: “We’re waiting for you here, Mom.” I cried again because even though it was short, it was enough.

The woman I worked for didn’t quite understand my decision. She told me to think things through, that I wouldn’t find the same thing in Mexico, that I was safer there. But I didn’t want security anymore. I wanted to be with my family, even if it was late, even if I didn’t know how. I started packing my things. I realized how many things I had that I didn’t really need. Clothes I never wore, shoes I didn’t even like anymore, things I’d kept just in case, but I also kept my memories, the photos, the letters from my children, the small birthday gifts they sent me, everything that had sustained me during those years.

I bought the ticket with my savings, a one-way ticket. The day I boarded the plane, my legs were shaking. It was the first time I’d returned in 19 years, almost two decades. I boarded alone with a knot in my stomach, a mixture of excitement and terror. During the flight, I stared out the window and thought about everything: the good days, the bad days, the times I wanted to give up. And I told myself, “You’ve done what you had to do, now it’s time to live again.” I didn’t know what awaited me; I only knew that when I got off the plane, I wouldn’t be alone anymore.

When the plane landed in Mexico City, the first thing I noticed was the smell, a smell I can’t describe, but one I’ve known since I was a child. A mixture of earth, of a griddle, of smoke, of the street—I don’t know, something that made me cry involuntarily. I put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from sobbing right there with everyone around me. I had no problem at immigration. I walked out with my old suitcase, the one that’s been with me since I arrived in the United States.

I brought what little I could fit in my bag and a bag of sweets and chocolates for my grandchildren. I didn’t know how I was going to manage to see them, I didn’t know what face to put on, I only knew it was now or never. My daughter was waiting for me outside, Carmen, in person, after so many years. When I saw her, I hardly recognized her. She was no longer the little girl I had left behind; she was a woman with dark circles under her eyes, with a mother’s body, with a different look in her eyes. I approached slowly. She looked at me, smiled, and hugged me tightly, without saying a word, she just cried, and I cried too.

We stayed like that, silent, for several minutes. People walked by, cars honked, but we were there, pressed together, crying as if time could be erased with a hug. “Welcome home, Mom,” he whispered. And I broke down again. Luis didn’t come for me. He said he couldn’t, that he had work, but I knew that wasn’t it; it was because he wasn’t ready. And I understood, because I wasn’t ready for many things either. The drive to Cuautla was long.