On Christmas Eve the city makes promises it can’t always keep. The trains run late, the wind cuts through coats that looked warmer in the store, and every light in every window seems to say stay. On the fourth floor of a narrow building in Queens, a boy named Mateo waits for his mother to come home from work. He has learned the sound of her steps on the stairs the way other boys learn the rules of a game. Tonight, he tells himself, he will hear them.
* * * * * * * * * *
Mateo sat at the small table by the window, his feet tucked under the rung of the chair, the way his mother told him to do so he wouldn’t fidget. He had been told not to touch the candles until she came, and he was obeying. The apartment smelled like boiled cinnamon sticks and orange peel, his mother’s idea of Christmas when money was tight. The pot sat on the stove, turned off now, but the smell lingered, sweet and sharp, like something hopeful that had been overheard.
Outside, the street was loud with last-minute shopping. Mateo watched people hurry past with bags bumping against their legs. The snow hadn’t come yet, but the cold was serious. He pressed his finger against the glass and traced a crooked star.
“Abuela would say it’s a sign,” he said to the empty room. His voice sounded too loud, so he lowered it. “She’d say something good is coming.”
From the bedroom, the radio murmured a station that played Spanish ballads between bursts of English ads. Mateo liked the way the voices went back and forth, like neighbours calling across a fence. He turned the volume down a notch. His mother didn’t like it loud. Loud meant attention.
On the table lay the paper snowflakes he had cut at school, folded and unfolded until they made lace. His teacher, Ms. Kaplan, had said, “Hang them wherever you like.” Mateo had smiled and thought of the living room window, where they could be seen from the street. But when he brought them home, his mother had held one up and shook her head gently.
“Inside,” she said. “We keep things inside.”
He’d nodded. He knew what she meant. Inside was safe.
He checked the time on the old phone they shared. 9:12. His mother’s shift ended at nine. The restaurant was only three stops away on the E, if the trains were behaving. He pictured her wiping her hands on her apron, laughing with the other women, saying goodbye. He pictured her on the platform, pulling her scarf up over her nose. He pictured her climbing the stairs.
He heard a knock.
Mateo froze. The knock came again, sharper this time.
He slid off the chair and stood very still. The rules were clear. Don’t open the door. Don’t answer. Wait.
“Mijo?” a voice said, low and close. “It’s Mrs. Alvarez.”
Mateo let out his breath and went to the door, unlocking the top lock first, then the bottom. Mrs. Alvarez stood there with her coat open; her hair pulled back tight, her eyes kind and alert.
“Your mamá called,” she said. “She’s on the train. It’s slow.”
“Oh,” Mateo said. He felt silly for the way his heart had jumped. “Okay.”
Mrs. Alvarez leaned in. “I brought you something.”
She held out a small paper bag. Inside was a loaf of bread, still warm, dusted with sugar. Mateo took it carefully.
“For later,” she said. “For when she gets home.”
“Thank you,” Mateo said. He meant it. Mrs. Alvarez had a way of showing up when needed, like the moon.
“Lock the door,” she said, already turning away. “And keep the lights low.”
“Yes, Mrs. Alvarez.”
Mateo closed the door and leaned his forehead against it for a moment. He could hear Mrs. Alvarez’s steps going down, then nothing.
He went back to the table and unwrapped the bread. He tore off a small piece and ate it, just to make sure it was good. It was very good.
The phone buzzed. He jumped again, then laughed at himself and picked it up.
Running late. Train stopped. I’m okay. Don’t worry.
Te amo.
Mateo typed back with careful thumbs. Te espero. I made the house nice.
He stood and turned on the little lamp by the couch. The light was soft and yellow. He moved the chairs closer to the table and set out the plates, the chipped ones with blue flowers. He put the candles in their holders but didn’t light them. He folded the paper snowflakes and taped them to the wall near the TV. He stood back and looked.
“It’s good,” he said. “It’s Christmas.”
There was a sound in the hallway, a voice and then another. Mateo went still again. The voices were men’s voices, low and official-sounding. He couldn’t make out the words. He turned the lamp off and went to the window. A van was parked outside, white and plain. A man in a dark jacket stood near it, talking into a radio.
Mateo’s stomach hurt. He thought of the rules again. He went to the bedroom and slid the radio off. He sat on the bed and hugged his knees.
“Please,” he said, not to anyone in particular. “Please don’t.”
The voices moved away. The van drove off. Mateo stayed where he was for a long minute, listening to his own breathing. When he stood up, his legs felt weak.
He went back to the living room and turned the lamp on again. He checked the phone. No new messages.
He decided to distract himself. He took out the small box under his bed, the one he had hidden there weeks ago. Inside was a scarf he had knitted in class with yarn Ms. Kaplan had given him. It was uneven and too short, but it was red, his mother’s favourite colour. He held it up and smiled.
“You’ll like it,” he told the scarf. “You will.”
Another knock came, lighter this time. Mateo didn’t move.
“Mijo,” his mother’s voice said, tired and familiar. “It’s me.”
He ran to the door and opened it. She stood there with her coat zipped up to her chin, her eyes shining and her cheeks red from the cold. She dropped her bag and opened her arms.
“¡Mi amor!” she said.
Mateo buried his face in her coat. She smelled like onions and soap and the cold.
“I was worried,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “I’m here.”
They stood like that for a moment, then she pulled back and looked at him.
“You’re taller,” she said.
“No,” he said. “You’re shorter.”
She laughed, a sound Mateo had missed without realizing it.
She took off her coat and boots. Mateo handed her the bread. She raised her eyebrows.
“For us,” he said. “Mrs. Alvarez.”
“She’s an angel,” his mother said. She kissed Mateo’s head. “Did you eat?”
“A little.”
“Good.”
She looked around the room and took in the paper snowflakes, the table and the candles.
“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly.
Mateo felt something loosen in his chest. He handed her the scarf.
“For you.”
She unfolded it and ran her fingers along the stitches. Her eyes filled.
“It’s perfect,” she said. She wrapped it around her neck. “Perfect.”
They lit the candles together. The flames flickered and steadied. His mother cut the bread and poured hot chocolate into mismatched mugs.
“To Christmas,” she said, raising her mug.
“To us,” Mateo said.
They sat and ate and talked about small things, the cat downstairs, the song on the radio, the way the train had stopped in the tunnel and everyone had sighed at once. Outside, the city kept its promises for a while. Snow began to fall, light and tentative, and the street grew quiet.
Mateo watched the flakes stick to the window and melt.
“It’s a sign,” he said.
His mother smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Something good is coming.”
And for that night, at least, it was true.
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