I was warned, but I assumed time and love would diminish the need for my older son to pick at his scabby wound.
Chapter XIV – July 1998
“…Sooner than expected, Ricardo woke me. I heard Agustín packing his little suitcase, again. My heart sank. He missed the people at DIF, where he’d spent thirteen months of his life. I recalled living with Nana Herminia, who lived right next door to us, and regardless of how happy I was to return to the mother ship after almost a year, I still missed my grandmother and her home. My son missed his home of thirteen months. We’d been warned that older children seldom made the transition; many would act out just to go back. Was this a sign?
I stood at the doorway, “Do you want us to go with you?”
He shook his head. Ricardo looked at his brother then at me several times before attaching himself to my knees.
“It’s a long ways away, you know. Do you want me to make you a sandwich for the road?” Agustín nodded.
I went into the kitchen and made picadillo, a childhood comfort food, a savory meat dish spiked with chopped green olives. Agustín usually had seconds and thirds if there were any. I made him a hefty sandwich and filled his canteen before Ricardo and I set the table for three. Agustín agreed he might as well have lunch with us; he’d have his sandwich later. He postponed his departure.”