Red lipstick, white teeth, and long black curls pulled back into a ponytail. A beat up old suitcase the color of mildew propped up against a whitewashed wall, and sad smiles on brown faces: this is my first memory. I don’t remember if I knew what was happening or where I was going. But I knew the tall pretty lady who smelled like expensive perfume and spicy food was my mom. I knew she always wore that lipstick. I knew she always pulled her hair up because she hated fuss. I don’t remember the sweat or the sticky air, but I know it was there. That was the day I left Mexico.

In my memories, Mama has always been there. Always in her soft perfume, sky-high heels, long red nails, and scarlet lipstick. I always counted on her to be together, composed, to know everything and anything. I always expected to look up and see the crimson on her lips; it was as much a part of her as her large smile and dark brown eyes. My mama: the woman who was never wrong. I didn’t know then that that would change.

When I was seven years old we went to New York City for the first time. Concrete monsters, and pungent gas fumes surrounded me; I have never felt so small and insignificant. But in the vast sea of busy people, my mama never once lost sight of me. It was as if we were back at home, where we bickered and fought over how many photos she was taking, not caring enough to pay attention to the people around us. Just Mama, and Dad, and me.

One night, sore muscles aching with each step, we walked back to the hotel. In a corner window display, a restaurant had made a life-size swan model out of tin-foil. I pressed my face against the cold glass and stared at it until my breath fogged up my vision. Can we come here tomorrow, daddy? I was about to ask when the crosswalk turned green and I was pulled across the street. I began asking dad if we could come back soon when he abruptly stopped and turned around.
“Amor?” he said, “Where are you!?”

My mom, who had been following behind us, had vanished. I could see the fear on my dad’s face and I suddenly felt very small again.

Then I heard my mom’s voice: “Down here! I’m down here!”

Lying in a pothole in the middle of the street, my mom was almost engulfed in the darkness.

“I can’t get up! I fell and I think something happened to my ankle!”

She turned her head, and I saw her eyes widen in panic: she was staring right into a truck’s headlights.

In that split second, everything I knew could have been gone. In that split second, my life could have been changed forever. And, I guess, in a way it did. But before the truck made contact, my dad rushed into the street and half dragged, half carried my mom to the sidewalk, to safety.

We left New York two days later, not leaving sooner because mama insisted she was fine. But what she didn’t know was that I saw her cringing in pain every time she thought I wasn’t looking.

Once we were back home and mama’s ankle had healed, things returned to normal. Hanging out with friends, playing board-games on the weekends, school and work; it wasn’t a few weeks until I noticed something was off. My mama had stopped using heels for a while so that her ankle would get better, but even though her foot was fine, she still wouldn’t wear anything but flats and loafers.
Little by little, she stopped doing things she used to. No more dresses or floral-printed skirts. No more foundation or mascara. No more jewelry. Suddenly, one day I woke up, and realized she wasn’t wearing lipstick. I stared at her. No crimson outlined her smile now. Her nails were short, and bare. She still had her hair in a ponytail, but she no longer wore perfume. This was not my mama, I thought.

I started looking at the other girls’ moms who all dressed nice, and I wondered what had happened. I wondered and wondered, and wondered. For years I thought about it, too scared to ask why. I don’t know if I was scared of her hurting her feelings, or of just hearing her answer. My dad didn’t act any different than before, and I just followed his lead. I didn’t dare ask the question that was always in the back of my mind: Are you no longer the woman you were a few years ago? Are you no longer the woman I knew?

It took time, but as I watched all my friends start wearing makeup one by one, I realized something: Who cares about the make-up!? Whether she was wearing mascara or not didn’t make a difference! Mama was Mama, and no one else. For the first time in a while I looked her in the eye and took her hand; she smiled. Her lips were light pink and a little chapped. She looked more beautiful than she ever had before.