How much does a mother know? How much does she keep silent, how much does she tell, how much does she lie? As long as mothers are alive, we are first and foremost children: more children than siblings, more than husbands, more than fathers. We cling to our mothers like a climber to his carabiner, regardless of age, regardless of distance. If their genes dominate us while they’re alive, it’s their absence that takes over after they’re gone. “If Mum could see me…”, “Mum must be laughing”, “What would Mum think of this?”. We talk to them when no one is looking because we know they are there, even if we can’t see them. We know they are eternal.
On the afternoon that Fer, Emma and Silvia took their mother to the emergency room, suffering from what appeared to be a minor infection, they could not imagine that life had set the stage for something completely unexpected. When they leave the hospital after a short stay, the familiar landscape has changed: the three siblings are suddenly forced to become both children and caregivers as they prepare for the possible orphanhood that may follow the absence of someone as eccentric and irreplaceable as Amalia.