Don't Breathe Too Deep
Carmelita Marquez clenched her bony fists, pursing her lips. The small woman glowered resentfully at the front door, sitting uneasily in her feeble rocking chair. Glancing quickly at the clock on the wall, she saw that it was past two o'clock in the morning.
"Mocosa," she muttered under breath, letting out a shaky breath. The door opened slowly, cautiously.
"Mimi," Carmelita said warningly, and the door closed. It was so dark, Carmelita could barely see the outline of her oldest daughter. She was only 17, and yet she was out and partying. She should be inside, studying and taking care of her brothers and sisters. Carmelita's husband, Paco, worked so damn hard to make sure their children would have a future, and this was how she treated them?
"Mama," Mimi whispered. "I was going to call..."
"No," Carmelita shook her head, tired of Mimi's excuses. "You weren't."
Mimi's eyes were misty, and Carmelita knew it wasn't because she was about to cry. "Estás drogado."
"No, mama, no..."
"Sí," Carmelita insisted, her voice growing louder. She stood up, pointing a shaking finger at her. "This is how you treat me, Mimi?! I've put up with so much these past years. Los drogados! Ay, Mimi. No more, no more. I want you out of this house. I've had enough!"
Her daughter looked at her, the hurt evident in her chocolate eyes. She looked paler than usual, stick thin, exhausted. "No."
"Mimi," Carmelita said more firmly, tears gathering in her eyes. "This is what is best for this family. I do not want my little children looking up to a druggie!"
"But I'm your daughter!" Mimi yelled desperately, shaking her head. "I'm your daughter!"
"And I am your mother," Carmelita said quietly. "And you do what I say. Papá already packed your bags."
The teenager looked like she wanted to speak, but couldn't. She grabbed the suitcase that was sitting on the table, and with one last pained look, she left. Carmelita collapsed onto her chair, cradling her head in her hands.
"Pobrecita."