It was a Wednesday afternoon, one of those leaden, heavy afternoons that sometimes descend upon the city, where the sky seems like a donkey’s belly about to burst. I was sitting in my favorite armchair, the blue velvet one I bought years ago at an auction, with a steaming cup of coffee in my hands. The aroma of cinnamon and piloncillo filled the room, giving me a false sense of peace. At 64, those moments of silence were my most precious treasure. I gazed through the window at the traffic, the red and white lights moving like distant ants, and thought how fortunate I was to be there, sheltered, calm, far from the chaos.
The ring of my cell phone shattered the atmosphere like a broken window.
I placed the mug carefully on the table and looked at the screen. The name that appeared was my only son. His name was Preston Gallagher. A smile appeared automatically, because to a mother a child never stops being that boy who once ran into her arms with scraped knees.
I answered and said softly, “Hello, Preston. What is it, son?”
His voice exploded with excitement. “Mom, you will not believe this. I have incredible news. Sit down because you might faint.”