When I was eight years old, I went to visit Tuxtla with my mom and several of her friends. Although we had been there many times before, I never stopped being amazed by the city's bustle. One place I had always liked going to was Plaza Crystal. It was a big place, full of stores and people, where everything seemed to move so fast. Mom loved going there, and she always said it was a great place to shop and go to the movies. For me, every visit felt like discovering something new all over again. We arrived in the morning, and the sun was already beginning to make everything hot. As always, my mom had her straight hair perfectly done. Details like her always-shiny hair gave me a sense of safety. She walked beside her friends, laughing and chatting, while I wandered off every now and then to look at things that caught my attention. Of all the times we had been there, I had never had trouble finding her in the crowd. But this time was different. We stopped in front of a store that had toys, and I stayed there looking at dollhouses and dolls. As I watched closely, I didn’t realize I had wandered further away from mom. When I looked up, the crowd surrounded me, and I couldn’t see her anymore. I walked in circles, trying to spot her straight hair, but all I saw were unfamiliar faces and people moving quickly. A sudden panic came over me. “Where’s mom?” I thought, my heart racing. I felt like the world had suddenly gotten much bigger. People walked past me, and the music from the shops and the noise of the plaza made it harder to calm down. I started walking through the main corridor of the plaza, looking in every direction and softly calling, “Mom! Mom!” But my voice was lost in all the noise. With every step, I felt like I was getting farther from everything I knew. Suddenly, I saw a man and walked up to him, hoping someone might help me. The man looked at me, and when he saw my tear-filled eyes, he walked over with a kind smile. “Are you lost, sweetie?” he asked in a soft voice. I nodded, unable to speak, and he offered me some water to help me calm down. “What does your mom look like?” he asked while handing me a bit of horchata. “She has straight hair,” I said, trying to stay calm while my mind kept racing with thoughts of finding her. The man looked at me for a moment, then gently took my hand and walked me over to a nearby police officer. The officer asked for my name and what had happened, while the man stepped away to make a call. Meanwhile, the fear kept growing. I thought mom wouldn’t find me anymore, that I’d never see her again in this sea of people. But just then, as the officer started talking on his radio, I heard something that stopped me cold. A familiar voice, loud and full of desperation: “Sweetie! Where are you?!” It was her. My mom. I saw her at the end of the hallway, running toward me, her straight hair shining in the sunlight. Her face was filled with worry and fear. When she reached me, she hugged me so tightly I could hardly breathe. “Don’t ever let go of me again!” she said, her words breaking with tears. “You had me scared to death!” I looked at her, speechless. I didn’t know what to do. I just hugged her tightly and whispered: “I was just looking at the toys…” By then, mom’s friends had already arrived, and though they were relieved, they gently scolded me. I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty, but deep down, I knew that scare had brought us even closer. Mom held my hand more tightly than ever, and before we continued, we headed to one of the places we always visited at Plaza Crystal: the ice cream stand. We sat on one of the benches, and mom gave me her lemon ice cream, like she always did to calm me down after a scare. The taste of the ice cream felt like comfort. As we ate, the other ladies laughed and told stories of their own childhood scares. The place that had seemed so big and frightening at first now felt warmer and more familiar. Mom hugged me again, this time with a calm smile on her face. She said: “Don’t ever walk off like that again. You really had me worried.” I nodded, squeezing her hand. From that day on, I never strayed from her side unless I was sure I could still see her—even in the biggest crowds.