I stood and showed myself out.
I was lying. I knew it. Max probably did too. I wasn’t sure. About any of it. About her.
That was the part I hated—the not knowing. I hated not being sure. I hated that someone else had a piece of her I couldn’t touch, couldn’t reach, couldn’t even compete with. And it wasn’t about control—not really. It was about the fact they hadhistory. Real, tangled, ugly history. The kind that sinks into a person and lingers long after it’s over.
Sebastian was her past—and not just some chapter she’d closed. He was the one who showed up when she burned everything else down. The one who helped her set fire to things. They’d been through the same shit. Same streets, same lies, same patterns. He’d known her before any of this. Before me. Before I was even in the picture.
And history like that didn’t just go away.
I wanted to believe she’d never go back to him. That she was smarter than that. That she’d changed. But I wasn’t blind.
I’d seen the way she got quiet when his name came up. Like if she just kept talking, it wouldn’t matter that her hands were shaking. I’d seen the hesitation in her eyes when I brought him up. The guilt. The anger. The ache she wouldn’t name.
It wasn’t about love. Not for her. Not anymore. But there was still something there.
And the worst part? I understood it. There were people I still would’ve picked up the phone for, long after I should’ve let them go.
So no, I wasn’t sure. I wanted to be. I wanted to sit there with my coffee and say it like it was fact:She won’t go back to him.She won’t run.But she was known for that.
And me?
I stayed. I always stayed. Even when I shouldn’t.Especiallywhen I shouldn’t.
I hadn’t learned that from something noble. I wasn’t raised on consistency or kindness or whatever else people are supposed to get from childhood. I’d learned to stay because the oneperson who was supposed to show up never did, and I swore—somewhere along the line, probably too young to remember making the decision—I’d never be the one walking away.
Her name was Isadora.
My foster mother.
She gave me my name—Marco. She said it sounded strong. Said it had weight. Said it wasn’t easy to forget, and she liked that. She always hated things that were easy to forget, like she’d already lived a hundred lives by the time she’d found me and didn’t want another one to vanish.
She used to call me“mi vida”when she was sober. Her voice would soften, real low, as if she remembered I was hers. Those were the rare days. Mornings, usually. Before the bottle. Before the phone calls. Before she disappeared into whatever new chaos had landed at her feet.
She had a laugh that filled the entire house. I used to think it was beautiful; that if I could just figure out how to make her laugh more, everything would be okay.
She’d sing in Spanish when she cooked, even when there wasn’t much to cook. When I was little, I’d sit on the counter while she stirred rice or opened a can of beans, and she’d tap her spoon against the side of the pot.
Those moments? I used to cling to them like they meant something. Like if I held on tight enough, they’d outweigh everything else.
They didn’t.
Isadora drank like breathing. She could ruin a day before it had even started. I was nine when she first passed out with a lit cigarette in her hand. Ten when I had to lie to the landlord because she hadn’t paid rent in three months. Eleven when I realized I was more responsible for her than she’d ever been for me.
She didn’t hit me. Not the way people assume. She just forgot me. Forgot I needed dinner. Forgot I needed rides. Forgot I existed when it was inconvenient. I became good at staying invisible, at cleaning up, at doing the adult things she wouldn’t.
By twelve, she couldn’t even remember my name half the time.
She’d call me“mijo”or“hey, you”or just yell from the other room as if I were the help.
But her husband—he remembered me.
His name was Gerard. Big guy. Ex-military. The kind of man who believed in routine and punishment and “character building.”
He wanted to turn me into a man.
That was what he’d say, always with that patronizing tone like I was some failed experiment he could fix with enough structure and shame. He’d make me wake up at 5:00 a.m. every day. Run three miles before school. Six on weekends. Said it would make me strong. Said it would “burn the softness out of me.”
If I missed a step—if I talked back, looked at him wrong, breathed in a way that annoyed him—he’d lock me in the hall closet. It was an empty room, just four mirrored walls and my own reflection staring back at me as if I were the problem. I’d stand there staring at my reflection for hours, forced to face the boy he saw. The one he thought needed fixing. The one he treated like a problem, like a monster he had to break and rebuild.
