You are fired, querido hijo, so that I can hire myself. My new role: a woman who takes salsa lessons on Tuesday nights, who buys the expensive coffee, who might adopt a dog even though you’re allergic. My new project: the rest of my life.
He mailed it the next day. And for the first time in years, his mother’s reply was not a phone call, but a postcard. On the front: a beach. On the back: “Deal. Now stop writing letters and go change your oil.” End of write-up. querido hijo estas despedido
Do not feel abandoned. Feel released. You were never meant to be my anchor; you were meant to be my sail. And a sail, my love, only works when the ship knows how to steer without it. You are fired, querido hijo, so that I can hire myself
For a full minute, he read it again and again, thinking it was a joke. Perhaps the punchline to a running gag about how he never returned the hedge trimmer. But the ink was too steady, the paper too crisp. He read on. He mailed it the next day
Querido hijo, estás despedido
Querido hijo, estás despedido.