CHAPTER 1
VALENTINA
JUNE 23, NEW YORK
The house still smelled the same. Like lemon. Cleaner, not the fruit.
Bright pink and purple balloons were taped to the walls, and a banner hung crooked above the dining table, just a breath away from falling.
“Feliz Cumpleaños,Lucia!”it read in Isabel’s messy writing.
Another year.
Another birthday.
I could’ve sworn I was here just yesterday for Lucia’s fifth birthday. Time was funny like that. It didn’t care if you were ready, and it certainly didn’t give you the time to catch your breath or tie your shoes. It dragged you forward kicking and screaming.
Sometimes I imagined it like one of those cruel carnival rides—the ones that spun you around and around until they made you dizzy, sick, and desperate to stop.
Time never stopped. It kept moving, leaving you in a constant state of fight-or-flight, nauseous and wondering when you’d gotten old enough to be nostalgic about the things you used to despise.
Time was personal.
Deeply personal.
The years felt heavy when I thought about my life, about the mistakes that piled up like laundry I couldn’t be bothered to fold, but when I looked at Lucia, they felt impossibly light, as if everything would be okay again.
Her small hand clutched mine today, but she’d be a preteen rolling her eyes tomorrow, and eventually, she’d grow even further away from me, barely recognizable. She’d become someone new—someone who wouldn’t remember I’d once braided her hair or wiped her tears when she scraped her knee.
Meanwhile, I’d still be stuck here, completely stagnant, collecting dust like one of those ugly porcelain figurines Mama used to keep on the mantel.
I stepped further into the house. The back door was wide-open, filling the air with the smell of freshly cut grass. The party spilled into the back yard. Kids in princess dresses and superhero capes darted between folding chairs and the bouncy house someone had rented last-minute. Uncle Santiago’s songs crackled from an old speaker on the patio, just as they did every birthday, every Christmas, every family gathering. Tradition was the only thing my family seemed to hold onto tightly.
The kitchen was just as I remembered it: yellow tiles, white counters, and a sink full of dishes. When I ran my fingers over the doorframe, they caught the faint marks in the wood.Valentina, 5’2”, written in Mama’s cursive, and above it,Isabel, 5’3”. Isabel passing me in height was a victory she’d never forget.
Somewhere between screams of laughter and the distant static hum of the fridge, I could almost hear Mama’s voice calling me and Isabel for dinner, yelling at us to stop fighting over mundane things. Funny how, even years later, the kitchen still felt crowded with memories—so noisy even when it was quiet.
Especiallywhen it was quiet.
Isa and I weren’t close like we used to be.
It had been months since I’d set foot in this house—long enough for Lucia to have outgrown the shoes I’d bought her last Christmas. Long enough for the voice mail Isabel had left after Mama’s last doctor’s appointment to still be sitting ignored in my inbox.
I didn’t know what was worse: that I’d let it go unanswered, or that I hadn’t called back even when guilt had clawed at me in the middle of the night.
I’d become the daughter who forgot birthdays, made empty promises, and avoided phone calls, because I didn’t know how to admit I was scared. Scared to see Mama weaker than before. Scared to acknowledge the truth that one day Isabel wouldn’t be able to handle it all alone.
When Mama first got sick, Isabel and I had fought bitterly about responsibilities, each argument worse than the last, until there was nothing left to say.
Much as I wanted to avoid confrontation with Isa now, I knew I couldn’t as soon as the kitchen door swung open.
Isabel stood there, stunned, in the middle of the kitchen, staring at me. “Vale, what are you doing here?”
I’d almost forgotten the way her voice fell off when she pronounced the “e” in my name like “eh.” Like the “e” was on its own. She’d been saying it that way since we were kids, long before anyone else had shortened Valentina.
“I’m—” I started, swallowing hard, suddenly aware of how pathetic I sounded—how pathetic I probably looked, hiding inside while everyone else celebrated outside. “I just came here to wish Lucia a happy birthday.”
“This is going to be confusing for her. You know that.”
