A black SUV pulls into an empty parking space in the parking lot in front of adjacent apartment buildings. The three-story white buildings have several balconies protruding. Each balcony has a small black charcoal grill and chairs. The chairs vary in color and style, but each is worn and weathered.
A small woman in her fifties exits from the driver’s side of the vehicle and hurries to the passenger side. She opens the passenger door and grabs a foil-covered dish from the seat. Holding it with both hands, she shuts the door with her hip and walks off.
The doorbell rings in Jaime’s apartment and Jaime climbs from the couch to answer it. He opens the door to the woman holding the dish.
WOMAN 3: I don’t know who you think you are, but there’s only one person who brought you into this world, and only one who can take you out.
JAIME: Hi, Mom.
She hands the dish to Jaime. He grabs it, she shuts the door, and they go off towards the living area. Jaime sets the dish on the small table in the dining alcove.
MOM: What are you thinking? Why are you doing this anyway?
JAIME: I don’t suppose I have an answer that will satisfy you.
Mom grabs the serving spoon from the table and dishes the lasagna onto the plates Jaime has set out. Jaime grabs a Diet Coke for his mother and a Pepsi for himself.
MOM: Everybody’s talking now. My stupid cousins are going to eat this up.
JAIME: Why do you care what they think?
MOM: I don’t. I just… can’t we just forget this nonsense?
She hesitates.
MOM: Oh well, I guess it’ll just blow over after a while, anyway.
They begin to eat. Jaime reaches for the napkins.
JAIME: Mom, this will not just blow over.
MOM: What are you talking about? Just put a “gotcha” on that silly website or something. And soon, ’cause I’m not going through this all month.
Jaime places his fork onto his plate. He chews and swallows his last bite of food and wipes his mouth with his napkin.
JAIME: You do know that I’m serious, right?
MOM: What do you mean you’re serious?
She continues to eat.
JAIME: I will be killing myself in 29 days.
She stops cold. Her fork hangs midway between her mouth and the plate; the pasta slides off. Her eyes widen and her face lengthens.
MOM: Why?
JAIME: I don’t think I have an answer that will make sense to you.
MOM: What did I do wrong?
JAIME: Nothing. It’s nothing you did.
MOM: I know your Dad and I split, but we both did our best for you boys.
JAIME: I know. I know you did.
She drops her fork, corrects her posture, tightens her face and leans in.
MOM: And I tried so hard to do so much for you all those years, gave up all those years! And THIS is the thanks that I get?
JAIME: Let’s get one thing straight: I appreciate everything that you’ve done for me. I love you for it. You are the best mother that I could ever hope to have. But, like you said, YOU brought me into this world, I didn’t CHOOSE to be here.
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