La Angelita

Rita tightened the thin shawl around her shoulders, though it did little to keep out the night's biting wind. The cold gnawed at her skin, creeping into her bones, but she ignored it. Her focus remained on the bundle cradled in her arms—her daughter, Angelita.

"Shh, mi amor," Rita whispered, rocking her gently. "Tu mamita está aquí. No tengas miedo."

The border city streets stretched out before her, empty and unwelcoming. The glow of flickering neon signs reflected off the wet pavement, a cruel mockery of warmth she couldn't reach. From where she sat, huddled in the alcove of a closed convenience store, she could see the passing headlights of cars, each one a world away from hers. People passed without seeing her, their hurried footsteps clicking against the concrete, eyes fixed ahead.

She pressed her lips to Angelita's forehead, feeling the coolness of her delicate skin. A shiver ran through Rita, but she smiled down at the baby. "You're such a good girl," she murmured, stroking the child's tiny hand. "So quiet, mi angelita."

A gust of wind howled through the streets, rattling an empty soda can against the curb. Rita flinched and pulled Angelita closer. "We just have to wait a little longer," she cooed, rocking slowly. Maybe tomorrow we'll find a place—a warm place."

She spoke as much to herself as to her daughter. The hunger clawed at her stomach had long settled into an ache she could ignore, but the relentless cold was harder to push away.

Across the street, the soft glow of a diner window beckoned, the figures inside bathed in golden light. A man sat at the counter, cradling a steaming mug between his hands. A woman laughed softly, her face full and round, the sound muffled but rich.

Rita turned away. That world was not hers.

She looked down again at Angelita, who remained still, bundled tight against her chest. Rita stroked her cheek, her voice trembling but tender. "I know, I know, mi amor. It's cold. But I'm here. I'm always here."

And she would be. Always.

Rita closed her eyes and let the memories drift like unwelcome guests seeking shelter from the cold. She whispered to Angelita, the words rolling off her tongue like a prayer.

"You'll have a better life, mi amor," she murmured, rocking the baby gently. "Not like mine… nunca como la mía."

Her mind traveled back to the village she had left behind—the dry, cracked earth beneath her feet, the scent of warm tortillas wafting through the air, the laughter of children playing in the dusty streets. She had once been one of them, barefoot and free before dreams of something greater had taken root in her heart.

A better life, they had promised. Work, dignity, a future.

Rita could still feel the weight of her mother's hands on her shoulders the day she left, her face weathered but loving. "Cuídate, mija," she had whispered. "And don't trust strangers."

But she had trusted.

She remembered the coyote's sharp smile and promises of safety as she crossed the border under the cover of darkness. She had been naïve, hopeful, and far too trusting. That trust had been shattered the night he locked her in a windowless room, the air thick with the stench of sweat and desperation.

Rita shuddered and held Angelita closer. "But I got away, didn't I, mi vida?" she whispered, her voice catching. "I ran. I fought. For you."

She had stumbled through the streets, barefoot and pregnant, cold and hungry but free. And when Angelita came into the world, in the damp corner of a shelter restroom, Rita swore she would never let anyone take her away.

Since then, the streets have been unkind. Shelters were crowded, and food was scarce. Strangers' kindness was fleeting; their eyes were always filled with pity or suspicion.

"But look at you," she said, brushing a fingertip over Angelita's soft cheek. "So strong. Just like your mamá."

A sharp gust of wind tugged at her shawl, and Rita adjusted it, shielding Angelita from the chill. In the distance, a siren wailed, a lonely cry against the night. She hummed an old lullaby, the melody soft and wistful.

"Duérmete, mi niña, duérmete ya..."

She felt Angelita's tiny fingers curled against her chest, still and unmoving, but she paid no mind. Rita knew that as long as she sang and whispered their dreams into the night, nothing else could touch them.

Rita huddled deeper into the alcove, pressing her body tightly around Angelita in a futile attempt to shield her from the cold. The night stretched endlessly, the icy wind howling through the empty streets like a wolf searching for prey. She pulled the shawl higher over Angelita's face, her lips brushing the baby's forehead.

"You see, mi amor," she whispered, "this cold... it's nothing. We are strong, you and I."

Her breath came in ragged puffs, curling into the air like ghostly ribbons. She glanced down at Angelita, searching for her chest's soft rise and fall beneath the blanket. A flicker of worry sparked in her heart, but she swallowed it down. She couldn't afford doubt. Not tonight.

"You'll grow up to be something special," she continued, her voice trembling but resolute. "Maybe a doctor... a teacher. Someone important, no like your mamá, huh?"

`

Rita smiled, though her cracked lips protested. In her mind, she painted a life for Angelita—one with bright colors and warm sun, far from the frozen concrete and the relentless ache of hunger. She imagined a small apartment, a little bed with soft blankets, and schoolbooks stacked neatly on a shelf. "I can see you already, mi vida," she murmured. "Smart and kind, with your mamá's strength."

Her stomach growled, but the hunger had become a dull, familiar ache, like an old wound that never truly healed, the pain she could ignore. What mattered now was Angelita.

Across the street, the diner door opened, spilling a brief pocket of warmth into the night. A man stepped out, pulling his coat tight around him. Rita met his eyes for a moment, hope flickering in her chest. But he looked away, quick and awkward, pretending not to see her huddled in the doorway.

She sighed and adjusted the baby's blanket. "They don't see us, mi niña," she said softly. "We are invisible to them. But that's okay, porque yo sí te veo. I see you, mi amor."

Her fingers trembled as she stroked Angelita's tiny hand, feeling how cool it had become. Panic scratched at the edges of her mind, but she forced herself to stay calm. "Just a little longer," she whispered. "The sun will rise soon. We have to hold on."

The wind howled again, slipping through the cracks in the buildings like a thief. Rita closed her eyes and began humming another lullaby, gently rocking Angelita in the crook of her arm. Her words were soft and soothing, but they meant more for herself now than for the baby.

"La vida es dura, pero tenemos amor, ¿verdad? We have each other."

She kissed Angelita's forehead again and tried not to notice how silent the baby had become.

Rita shifted against the cold concrete, her body aching from hours of stillness. She rocked Angelita gently, whispering dreams into the night, letting hope paint over the bleakness around them.

"Someday, mi amor, we'll have a little place of our own," she said, her voice soft but filled with conviction. "A warm home with pink curtains, and you'll have a crib with soft blankets—real blankets, not this old thing."

She smiled faintly, tracing the edge of Angelita's bundled form with trembling fingers. Her mind conjured images of a sunlit kitchen where she would make tamales like her mamá used to, filling the air with the smell of masa and warm spices. Angelita would sit in a little chair, kicking her feet and laughing. Rita clung to that dream with all the strength she had left.

"You'll go to school, learn English, and show them how smart you are," she continued, her voice cracking under the weight of exhaustion. "And I'll be there every step of the way."

The wind whipped through the alley, and Rita tightened her grip around Angelita, her heart aching at the cold seeping through their thin layers. She pressed her lips to the baby's forehead. "You're so quiet, mi vida. Are you dreaming?"

Her fingers lingered over Angelita's tiny hand, brushing lightly against her skin. A sharp chill shot through Rita's chest, but she forced a smile. "You're just tired, right?"

The world around them blurred into a haze of shadows and distant city lights. A few feet away, a couple walked briskly past, their laughter ringing through the empty streets. Rita watched them disappear into the night, swallowed by a life far removed from hers.

A lump rose in her throat, but she pushed it down. "One day, people will see us," she whispered. "They'll know we belong here too. Maybe we'll have neighbors who bring us tamales on Christmas, like back home."

She looked down at Angelita, her vision swimming. "We just have to keep going, mi amor. Just a little longer."

A sudden wave of dizziness washed over Rita, and she leaned back against the cold brick wall, cradling Angelita even tighter. She whispered a prayer under her breath, pleading with La Virgen de Guadalupe to watch over them, to give them strength.

"Nos cuidas, Virgencita," she murmured, pressing her eyes shut. "No me quites a mi niña. I need her."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding. Rita held onto Angelita's tiny form, rocking her gently and humming a soft lullaby.

In her heart, she knew something was wrong. But she refused to say the words aloud.

Not yet.

Rita's humming faltered, her voice cracking as she whispered into the night. Angelita's weight in her arms felt heavier, as if the baby had settled into a deep sleep.

"Mi vida," she murmured, brushing a strand of dark hair from the baby's forehead. "You're so peaceful."

The city around them remained indifferent; horns blared in the distance, and a thin veil of mist curled around the empty sidewalks. Rita pulled Angelita closer, pressing her cheek against the baby's cool skin. A tremor ran through her, and she shushed the feeling away, forcing herself to believe in the comfort of her own words.

"You're just cold," she whispered, tucking the edges of the shawl tighter. "I know... it's a bad night. But soon, the sun will come out, and everything will be better, mi angelita. We'll find a place, and we'll laugh, and we'll be warm."

The words hung in the air, fragile and desperate. Rita held her breath, waiting for some sign, a flutter of tiny fingers, a soft coo, anything. But there was only stillness.

Her chest tightened, the edges of her carefully constructed hope beginning to fray. She swallowed hard, her eyes darting to Angelita's face, searching for the delicate rise and fall of her breath beneath the blankets.

"Angelita?" Her voice was barely a whisper now. Rita nudged her gently, her fingers trembling as they pressed against the baby's chest.

Nothing.

Panic clawed at her throat, and she shook her head fiercely. "No, no, no," she muttered, rocking Angelita more urgently. "Wake up, mi amor. Just a little longer. Hold on for mamá."

She kissed the baby's forehead again, her lips lingering, feeling the unnatural chill settling there. A sob escaped her, ragged and broken. "No tengas miedo, I'm here," she choked out. "I'll keep you warm, I promise."

A figure appeared at the sidewalk's edge: a police officer with tired eyes and a worn jacket. He hesitated, watching the young woman clutching the tiny bundle so tightly. Rita didn't look up, didn't acknowledge him. She couldn't.

"Ma'am," he said gently, stepping closer. "Do you need help?"

Rita rocked Angelita in slow, steady motions, her voice barely above a whisper. "She's sleeping," she said, staring at the baby. "She's just sleeping, you see? So quiet... such a good girl."

The officer's face softened with sorrow. He knelt beside her, his breath misting in the frigid air. "Miss... let me take a look, okay?"

"No," Rita whispered, pulling Angelita tighter against her chest. "She just needs me. That's all. She's fine."

The man hesitated, but the truth hung between them like a heavy fog. Deep down, Rita knew it, too, beneath the layers of hope and denial, the lullabies and whispered dreams.

Still, she continued speaking to Angelita as if the words could reach her somewhere beyond the cold.

"We'll be okay," she whispered. "We always are."

Snow had begun to fall, delicate flakes drifting from the sky, settling gently onto Rita's shoulders, and the soft fabric wrapped around Angelita. The city stretched on around them, uncaring and indifferent.

Rita sat still, cradling her baby, her lips moving in a steady, hushed rhythm. "Mi amor, do you remember the stars?" she whispered. "Back home, they were so bright... brighter than here."

The officer knelt beside her again, his voice softer now. "Ma'am... please. Let me help."

Rita didn't respond. She stroked Angelita’s tiny hand, pressing it against her own cheek as if trying to share her warmth. Her breath trembled, but she forced another smile, her cracked lips barely moving. "We’ll go home soon," she murmured. "Maybe we’ll see the stars again."

The officer swallowed hard, his hand reaching out slowly. Rita flinched but didn’t resist when he gently touched Angelita’s still form. His eyes darkened with sorrow as he exhaled, shaking his head. "I’m sorry," he said softly.

Rita blinked, her gaze unfocused, staring past him into the dim glow of the streetlights. The truth pressed against her chest, heavy and suffocating. But she couldn't let it in, not yet.

Instead, she rocked Angelita, her voice barely above a whisper now. "Just a little longer, mi vida. Hold on. We’ll be warm soon, I promise."

The snowflakes continued to fall, dusting mother and child in a soft white veil. The officer stood slowly, speaking into his radio, but Rita paid him no mind. She remained in her world, speaking her soft lullabies, lost in the fragile comfort of her own words.

A tear slipped down her cheek, freezing before it reached her chin.

"Angelita, mi amor," she whispered, her voice fading into the wind. "My little angel... we are almost home."

And in the quiet of the night, she held her daughter close as if love alone could keep them both from slipping away.