BACK HOME

Alonso slung his backpack over one shoulder, his muscles aching from the rigorous training session. He had expected Coach Herrera to give him a ride home today, but when training ended, the coach clapped him on the back and walked off toward his office. 

Alonso hesitated for a moment, watching the other players leave in groups or getting picked up by family members. He exhaled through his nose, adjusted his backpack, and started walking home on his own.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows on the worn-out pavement as Alonso made his way through the familiar streets of his neighborhood. 

The echoes of his footsteps followed him, and now and then, he would hear the distant shouts of kids playing football in the alleyways.

 It reminded him of where he had come from and how much further he had to go.

When he reached the apartment building, his legs felt even heavier than before.

 Climbing up the creaky wooden stairs to their unit, he ran a hand along the peeling paint of the walls, a habit he had developed over the years. 

When he reached the door, he pushed it open and called out, "Mama, I'm back. What do you have for me?" Silence.

Alonso frowned. His mother usually responded immediately, even if she was busy with something. He stepped inside and dropped his backpack on the small wooden table near the entrance.

His eyes scanned the small living room, but there was no sign of his mother or his younger sister, Lucia. "Mama? Lucia?" he called again, his voice a little louder this time. Still nothing.

He moved toward the tiny kitchen, peeking inside to see if his mother was cooking. The stove was cold, and there were no plates or utensils set out. He checked their shared bedroom, pushing aside the thin curtain that separated his sleeping space from his sister's.

The beds were empty. No signs of movement.

His pulse quickened slightly. Where could they have gone without telling him?

He returned to the living room and sat down, his fingers drumming against his knee. His mother always told him where she was going. It wasn't like her to just disappear like this.

After a few more minutes of waiting, Alonso stood up and freshened up, splashing cold water on his face to clear his head. His stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since early morning.

He went back to the kitchen and opened the cupboards, checking for anything he could eat.

Not a single plate of food was left on the counter. No bread, no rice, no leftovers from the night before. The fridge, when he opened it, was nearly empty.

A half-full bottle of milk sat on the top shelf next to a small bowl of beans. That was all.

Alonso's stomach tightened—not just from hunger, but from unease.

His mother would never leave without making sure there was something for him to eat. Had something happened? He pulled out his old phone, the screen cracked from an earlier fall, and quickly dialed his mother's number.

He waited, the ringing sounding loud in the quiet apartment. No answer. He tried again.

Still nothing.

He grabbed his backpack again and threw it over his shoulder. If she wasn't home, he needed to find out where she was. Maybe one of the neighbors had seen her.

As he stepped outside and locked the door behind him, he caught sight of an older woman sitting on the steps of the building, peeling oranges. It was Señora Marta, one of their neighbors who always kept an eye on things.

"Good evening," Alonso greeted her quickly. "Have you seen my mother or Sofia today?"

The woman looked up, squinting at him through her thick glasses. "Your mother? No, mijo, I haven't seen her all day. I thought she was working."

Alonso's stomach sank. His mother's shift at the factory didn't start until late afternoon. If she hadn't been home all day, where had she gone?

"Okay… gracias," he said, turning away.

He walked down the street, his mind racing. Maybe his mother had gone to visit a friend? Maybe something had come up?

Alonso hurried down the streets of his small town, his stomach growling louder with each step. His uncle Pedro owned a cozy little restaurant called "Pedro's Diner," known for its hearty meals and warm atmosphere.

Today, it felt like the only place that could chase away the hunger gnawing at him.

As he approached the diner, the scent of sizzling bacon and fresh bread wafted through the air, teasing his senses.

With a sense of urgency, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, the soft chime of the bell signaling his arrival. The familiar sights and sounds surrounded him — cheerful chatter, the clinking of dishes, and the comforting hum of the kitchen.

Spotting his uncle behind the counter, Alonso rushed over. "Uncle Pedro!" he called out, his voice tinged with frustration. Pedro looked up, wiping his hands on his apron, concern etched on his face.

"What's wrong, Alonso?" he asked, noticing the storm brewing in his nephew's brown eyes.

"It's Mum and Lucia. They're not home, and I came back to find the house empty!

I'm really angry about it!" Alonso's words spilled out, his emotions finally breaking the surface. Uncle Pedro regarded him with understanding.

"I see. Sometimes things happen that we don't expect. But you know you can always come here. How about I fix you something special?"

Alonso took a deep breath, feeling the anger start to melt away as the warmth of his uncle's kindness enveloped him. "Can I have a cheeseburger and fries?"

"Coming right up!" Pedro smiled, and as he got to work in the kitchen, Alonso settled into a booth, knowing he was exactly where he needed to be.