The late-model red Chevy sedan pulls to the curb, its engine idling only a moment before Tricia Lockhart steps out. She wears a knit blazer draping over a dark button-up blouse and a pair of slacks, her carryall purse over one shoulder. Her designer sunglasses rest firmly on her face, covering her eyes from the mid-morning sun as she shuts the door behind her before the car proceeds down the street. 

 

The Uber came to pick her up from the hotel she was staying in. 

 

Tricia took a brief moment to absorb the scene in front of her. The working-class neighborhood is still lined with mostly identical one-story homes, and she could tell that many of the same neighbors still lived there—just older now. Still, the fact remained: she hadn’t been back in nearly twenty years.

 

Her eyes purposely land on the salmon-colored bungalow next door—quaint and sun-faded, with white-trimmed windows and a chain-link fence that had seen better days. A few ceramic gnomes and a metal wind spinner still stand near the garden bed. 

 

Tricia climbs the porch steps, her heels clicking softly on the wood; however, her focus shifts to the house next door. The one-story structure, painted in varying shades of gray, looks mostly the same—just touched up with a fresh coat that likely hadn’t been there five years ago, probably courtesy of that asshole stepfather. 

 

She’d come from Radcliffe because her mother is in the hospital. The only sign of Jolene left behind was the silver Ford Taurus parked outside the closed two-door garage. 

 

She rings the doorbell. While she waits, she looks around—up at the overhang, down at the porch swing that’s still hanging on. The scent of lavender and soil drifts through the air, bringing a dusting of nostalgia, for better or worse.

 

The door opens. And there she stood 

 

"Tricia!" Mrs. Montez exclaims, her warm voice cracking slightly with emotion. 

 

The Hispanic woman looks the same—well, mostly. Her once-dark hair has turned silver, but her face still holds the same gentle features and knowing eyes. She wears a soft pink tunic over a long, flower-patterned skirt, her arms already reaching forward.

 

Tricia smiles softly, slipping off her sunglasses as she steps into the embrace. 

 

"Hey, Mrs. Montez. Long time no see." 

 

“Come on in,” Mrs. Montez says, pulling her in.

 

Inside, the familiar scent of sauteed onions and lemon disinfectant greets her. The living room hasn’t changed—same crocheted throws, family photos (a few more than before) on the walls and mantel, and the crucifix still hanging beside the set of religious candles.

 

“You look great,” Mrs. Montez says, motioning for her to sit. “That country living agrees with you.”

 

Tricia smirks as she settles onto the couch. “Something like that.”

 

They exchange a few pleasantries before Mrs. Montez’s smile softens, concern settling behind her eyes.

 

“My kids keep telling me to come to live with them in Sacramento or Vegas. ‘You don’t need to be alone,’ they say. But I tell you what I keep telling them. I’m not helpless. This is my home. Always has been, always will be.”

 

She and her late husband raised four children—all adults now, with their own lives and some with families of their own.

 

“If you were my mother, I’d worry about you too. Though it’s obvious you’re still hanging in there.”

 

When life at home became too much—too many arguments, too much violence—Tricia could always count on the Montezes for refuge. A hot meal and more importantly it was somewhere safe. 

 

Tricia looks at her for a moment, her tone softening. 'I’ve always wanted to say thank you for looking out for me when I had nowhere else to go.'"

 

Mrs. Montez reaches over and gently clasps Tricia’s hands in hers. “It was never any trouble, mija, and I’m proud of the woman you’ve become—among your adversity.”

 

Adversity? Tricia thinks to herself—what, between getting involved with a married man that led to a marriage where he couldn’t stop seeing his ex-wife, the baby son she lost unexpectedly, or the slow end of her marriage? But this visit wasn’t about her life in Radcliffe, Kentucky.

 

Mrs. Montez's eyes narrow fondly. “And speaking of misfortune…  Have you seen your her?”

 

“Not yet.”

 

Her mother’s been in the hospital for a day or so now.

 

“What actually happened?” she asks.

 

“What she told the doctor is that she fell,” Mrs. Montez says, her voice lined with skepticism. “But we both know the truth.”

 

“I’ve tried to get through to her, but she won’t listen,” Mrs. Montez sighs, shaking her head. “Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

 

“I doubt it,” Tricia mutters. “She’s made her bed—”

 

“—And now she’s lying in one in a hospital,” Mrs. Montez cuts in. “She’s still your mother, regardless. Look, I know it was tough on you growing up, but maybe it’s not too late—to help her leave that hell behind… and to repair what’s broken between you. ¿Me entiendes?”

 

Tricia’s eyes settle on the older woman, uncertain. She doesn’t know what she can do, let alone how to help someone who never wanted it before.

 

“She needs you,” Mrs. Montez says gently. “Whether she admits it or not.”

 

“Memorial?” Tricia finally asks.

 

Mrs. Montez nods. “At least go visit her, Patricia.”

 

It’s rare to hear anyone call her by her full name. Only her mother ever really did—so when Mrs. Montez says it, it lands heavy. 

 

“I’m not promising a miracle or anything,” Tricia says. “But I’ll at least go see her.”

 

“Of course, mija. You know I’m still praying for her. And for you, too."

 

“Thanks,” Tricia replies, her voice quiet but sincere.

 

Mrs. Montez rises slightly, a gentle smile pulling at her lips. “Now, would you care for some iced tea? I made it fresh this morning.”

 

“Yeah, I’ll take some,” 

 

“Two iced teas coming up,” the widow says as she gets to her feet and heads into the kitchen.

 

Tricia looks around the house, remembering the good memories fondly—wishing she had even one like them in the house less than five feet away.