“Thank you, sir,” I said as I tried to process what I’d just heard.
It was a great opportunity, and it was one that I’d worked toward since I graduated from law school. It meant bigger cases, more money, and most importantly, more security.
“We’ll be sending you an official offer letter by end of day,” the attorney continued. “You’ll start at fifty-five-thousand dollars annually, which is ten percent more than what you’re making now… but once you get your client base up, you’ll be able to make a bit more in bonuses and get on the partner track.”
“I’m honored for the opportunity,” I replied. “I’ll be glad to review your official offer, and I’ll have a formal response to you by the end of the week.”
“Good,” my potential employer said. “I look forward to your acceptance. Have a wonderful day. And congratulations again on that win.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said before I disconnected the phone.
I don’t know exactly how long I simply stared at the cement beam in front of my car as I processed what had just happened. A job at Hancock, Garcia, and Smith would be a major boost for my career, to put it mildly, but I would have very few traditional criminal cases if I made the move. HGS handled mostly white-collar cases, an area that I didn’t have a lot of experience with, though I was certainly willing to learn.
And then there were the clients. They were some of the world’s wealthiest people, and while the starting salary was only ten percent more than my current income, the potential for growth was huge. Especially if I made partner some day and could share in the profits. Hancock, Garcia, Smith, and Torres had a nice ring to it, I had to admit.
I stuffed my phone in the dash holder and then checked the clock. It was almost dinner time so I decided to stop by my mom’s to share the news over a good dinner. She would be thrilled to hear that I’d been offered a job at such a prestigious firm, and I could make up for not visiting her in nearly two weeks by telling her in person.
The drive out of downtown held it’s usual frustrations, but at least I was able to roll down my windows and let the smell of the ocean wash over me. The scent calmed the rage that threatened to bubble up when someone cut me off, and I gripped the old leather of my steering wheel as I took a deep breath and tasted the salt on my tongue.
My mom’s house was small and old, with a chain-link fence around the front yard, peeling white paint, and side yards so tiny that the neighbors’ houses were almost pressed against it. I reminded myself that I needed to recruit one of the neighborhood kids to paint the stucco again, and then I tried to calculate how much that would cost me.
But then I remembered the offer, and I knew if I took the job at Hancock, Garcia, and Smith, I would be able to put a little money into my mother’s home. I could hire professionals to do the job this time, and maybe find someone to help clean the weeds out of the backyard. There was a small patch on the roof that should probably be replaced soon as well.
I stood on the sidewalk for a moment and stared at the house as I imagined all the things I could do for my mom. Maybe it wouldn’t be all done in a month, but at least I could finally start to repay her for everything she had done for me. She’d worked to make sure I could go to college and then law school, and she’d done so with a smile on her face and an endless amount of patience whenever I complained that things were too difficult.
“Mama!” I called as I opened the front door with my spare key.
As always, I was greeted with the smell of lavender Fabuloso and her favorite brown sugar vanilla candle when I stepped into the house. It was the smell of home, and I stopped to drink it in before I went in search of my mom.
“Roberto?” my mother’s voice responded from the direction of the kitchen.
She sounded tired, and I hoped that I could convince her to at least let me finish cooking dinner for her. I’d clean up as well, of course, but I knew that she’d been feeling tired the last few months. I’d pressed her to go to her doctor, but she’d insisted she just needed to rest.
“Hey, mama,” I said when I came into the tiny kitchen with its faded lemon wallpaper and scratched linoleum countertops.
The Cuban mama had her back to me, and her shoulders were hunched in, like she’d been crying. She seemed smaller than the last time I had seen her, and I wondered if it was possible to lose that much weight in just two weeks. Her favorite dress hung limply around her body, and her auburn hair was thinner than it once had been.
“Mi hijo,” the tired woman grinned at me as she turned around.
She had dark bags under her eyes that made her green eyes seem darker than mine, and there was no hiding the red lines caused by tears. “It’s good to see you.”
She opened up her arms, and as I hugged her, I realized how frail she had become.
“Mama,” I mumbled when I took a step back. “Have you been crying? Are you sick? Why didn’t you call me?”
The job offer took a back seat as I looked at the woman
