My name is Josefina Morales, and this is the part of my story I’ve never fully told. People often see women like me—tired, with chapped hands and hunched shoulders—and think we’re made of iron.

But no.

I keep silences that weigh more than the years, memories that burn like embers in my chest and that no one, not even those closest to me, ever knows.

The Decision

When I agreed to go to California as a caregiver, I did so with a lump in my throat. My children, Luis, 7, and Carmen, 5, were sleeping when I made that decision. I approached them, hugged them, and promised myself:

“I’m going to come back. No matter how long it takes, I’m going to come back and give them a different life.”

My neighbor’s cousin helped me get a contract to care for an elderly woman named Helen in San Jose. At first, I thought it was a stroke of luck, but over time, I understood that there are no coincidences: that job saved my life.

The trip was a mixture of fear and hope. My hands trembled as I went through immigration, my heart in my throat thinking they’d discover me, even though my visa was legal. When I finally walked through the airport door, I knew there was no turning back.

Helen’s House

Helen was a widow, with arthritis in her hands and knees. She was 82 years old when I arrived. The house was large, with dark wood furniture, family photographs in every corner, and a garden full of roses that she loved. Family Games

The first time she looked at me, she smiled tenderly.

“Josefina, right?” she said in a cracked voice.

I nodded nervously.

“Welcome to my home.”

She didn’t treat me as an employee. She treated me as a person. She asked me to speak to her in Spanish because she wanted to learn, and at night she told me stories from her youth while I rubbed her numb hands.

Soon, I realized that Helen was lonely too. Her children lived in other cities and rarely visited her. In a way, we kept each other company.

The Pain of Distance

Every day I spent there was a battle with nostalgia. It hurt not to see my children grow up. I sent money to my mom so they could have food, uniforms, the basics. But when they sent me letters drawn in crayon, with scribbles that said

“Mom, I miss you,” I felt like my heart was breaking.