It soaked the streets until the city felt smaller, heavier, as if Mexico City itself were holding its breath. That kind of rain doesn’t just wet your clothes; it finds its way into old wounds, into memories you thought had scarred over. And that night, standing beneath the glow of a glass skyscraper that split the clouds in two, I knew the storm wasn’t accidental.It was personal.I stood across from the tower, my coat thin, my shoes worn smooth by years that refused to forget me. The doorman’s gaze lingered—assessing, dismissing. Women like me didn’t arrive at places like this drenched and trembling. Not with prison-issued soles. Not with a history stitched together by bars and silence.

But my heart—reckless, stubborn—refused to be quiet.Maybe, it whispered, she would listen now.I pressed the intercom.“Yes?”hat voice.Time hadn’t erased it—only sharpened it. Stronger. Colder. Still unmistakably hers.“Livvy,” I said softly. “It’s… it’s Mom.”Silence followed. Dense. Suffocating.When she spoke again, warmth was gone.“What do you want?”I was released today,” I said. “I didn’t know where else to go. I just… wanted to see you.”A sharp breath on the other end.Are you serious?” she snapped. “I have guests here. Important people. You think I can explain my ex-con mother to them?”