“Okay,” I finally said, quietly giving in. “New Orleans.”
She smiled softly, victoriously, her eyes lighting up in a way I knew I’d do anything to see again.
Valentina had this way of dragging me into places I swore I’d never set foot in again. She didn’t even know she was doing it; she’d just casually take a stroll into the shadows I’d spent decades avoiding, completely oblivious that they meant anything. And somehow, that obliviousness, her utter lack of fear, made the things that haunted me seem smaller. Not gone, but less overwhelming, and maybe even a little easier to confront.
She did it with everything. Dark rooms, hallways, the silence that hung in spaces I once hated. She moved through them as if they were nothing—just rooms, just quiet, and just space. To her, mirrors weren’t tools meant to punish or humiliate; theywere there for her to fix her makeup or glare at when she wasn’t happy with her hair. When she stood in front of them, she wasn’t looking for flaws. She was just existing, completely unbothered by her reflection, no hidden meanings, no cruelty behind it.
She’d eventually convinced me to put a mirror up in the bathroom for her. It had felt wrong at first, almost disrespectful to all the years I’d spent carrying that baggage. I’d watch her brush her teeth, humming around the toothbrush, foam dripping down her chin as she made faces at her reflection, and I’d think,God, it really was all in my head, wasn’t it?All the dread, all the anxiety, all those old ghosts that’d kept me up at night—they weren’t real for her, so maybe they didn’t have to be real for me either.
She wasn’t gentle about it either. Not intentionally cruel, just blunt, pragmatic, the way Valentina always was. “Marco, it’s just a mirror,” she’d said once. And it had hit me hard—because it was just a mirror, wasn’t it? Just glass. Just my own reflection looking back at me, not some stranger who carried all my flaws and regrets.
She forced me, without even knowing it, to separate what had actually happened from what I’d built up in my head over the years. She made me realize I wasn’t trapped by my past—I’d built those traps myself, layer after layer, until they seemed impossible to escape.
But they weren’t. Valentina made sure of that. She didn’t hold my hand through it or whisper soothing bullshit about how it was all okay. She just barreled forward, expecting me to follow, because she saw no reason not to.
And I did. Every single time.
It didn’t erase everything. It didn’t make the memories stop hurting entirely. But it did something almost as good. It made me feel less alone; less stuck inside my own head. Because if Valentina could stand in front of those mirrors in thosedark rooms without feeling the walls closing in, then maybe, eventually, I could too.
Going back to New Orleans was just another notch on the tally. While I’d said yes, I still didn’t like to think of the place.
I was fifteen years old the first time I ran away. I don’t know why I chose that day. Nothing dramatic had happened—no big fight, no slammed doors. Gerard had just passed out in his recliner again, right next to his wife, who was surrounded by empty beer bottles and a half-full ashtray that threatened to spill with every breath she took. Something inside me had snapped. It had been quiet, the way my breaks always were.
I took twenty-seven dollars from his wallet—just enough for a bus fare and a sandwich at the gas station—and I left. I made it three days before I got caught. Three days spent sleeping under bridges and behind abandoned buildings, shivering from the humidity that seeped into my bones. When they finally tracked me down, dirty and exhausted, behind a gas station on Esplanade, the social worker looked at me with pity, and maybe even a bit of frustration. They sent me right back, straight into Gerard’s waiting fists and promises to “make a man out of me yet.”
Two years later, I ran away again—but this time I did it right. Seventeen, angry, and finally smart enough to have a plan, I walked into a recruiting office off Canal Street and signed my life away to the United States military.
It felt like freedom—the closest thing to escape I’d ever known.
I’d thought I was done. Done with New Orleans, done with every cramped, crowded room I’d ever lived in. But life had a twisted sense of humor, and seventeen years later, here I was again, right back in the city I’d spent my whole life escaping, all because Valentina had smiled sweetly at me over breakfast one morning and asked for a “babymoon.”
I’d never been good at saying no to her.
When we arrived, New Orleans felt different. Smaller, maybe, or just faded in places that seemed brighter in my memory. Valentina insisted on the French Quarter first, eager and curious, eyes wide like a kid at Disneyland. I followed her quietly down familiar cobblestone streets, hands tucked into my pockets, feeling out of place in the city I used to know so well.
Valentina, of course, noticed absolutely none of my internal angst. She was too busy pausing every fifteen seconds, distracted by shiny objects like Mardi Gras beads and souvenir shot glasses that promised to get you drunk on Bourbon Street.
“Marco, I need these,” she declared, holding up purple-and-green beaded necklaces as if they were some rare find.
“You know they throw those out for free, right?”
She shot me a look that suggested I was both naïve and hopelessly uncultured. “I am seven months pregnant, Marco. Nobody’s going to be throwing beads at me unless they feel bad.”
“They’d be throwing them because you’re gorgeous.”
“Nice save, lawyer,” she said, dropping the beads onto the counter and turning to the shopkeeper. “We’ll take three.”
We wandered further down Decatur, past street performers and jazz musicians. Valentina slowed down to listen, bobbing her head lightly to the music.
“Marco, you should tip him,” she whispered, nudging me.
“You have cash.”
“You’re the criminal—you pay him,” she retorted, smiling sweetly. “Think of it as reparations for all the wallets you stole.”
I rolled my eyes but handed a hundred-dollar bill to the saxophonist anyway, who smiled appreciatively and blew Valentina a kiss. She laughed, gently patting her belly.
“See, Marco? The baby likes jazz.”
