Marisol gives me a mutinous look. “If I meet this Gustave person, I’m going to knee him in the nuts.Pendejo!”
“Language, Marisol,” Papi and Mama say in unison.
Papi sets a bowl in front of me—a steaming broth rich with beef, rice, and vegetables—and pats my shoulder. “Eat,mija. Everything feels smaller with a full stomach.”
The first spoonful makes my throatclose. The warmth hits my chest, and the tears come, spilling down into the soup.
My father doesn’t say anything as he pulls up a chair beside me.
“Crying’s good,” he tells me. “Salt adds flavor.”
Marisol snorts. “You have the strangest notions, Papi.”
He shrugs, eyes twinkling. “Food heals everything. Even broken hearts.”
Later, we sit in the living room—Marisol curled in the armchair, Mama cross-legged beside me on the couch, Papi in his recliner with a beer.
“Mija.” Mama kisses my cheek. “Paris did not break you. You are still whole. It only showed you that some people have no idea what to do with a woman who shines too bright.”
Papi exhales slowly, setting down his beer. “This man,” he says, not quite asking, “he didn’t trust you.”
“No. He didn’t.”
Marisol’s voice is fierce. “Then he doesn’t deserve you.”
Papi nods. “But we don’t care abouthim. We only care about you, Tara.”
I nod weakly. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and reach a new normal,” Papi advises. “Life doesn’t stop for heartbreak. We clean the wound, and we keep going.”
Mama cups my face. “It will hurt for a while, but itwill get better. Once you’re in a studio working, your mind will reset.”
I lean against her shoulder, her heartbeat steady under my cheek.
Papi stands and heads for the kitchen. “I’ll makechocolate con canela?*. That fixes everything that thesopa?* didn’t.”
Mama calls after him, “And bring somepan dulce?*!”
I laugh, feeling what I knew I would when I was with my family, the certainty that I will survive this.
But the feeling doesn’t last.
The email from the Philadelphia Museum of Art arrives two days later.
Thank you for your contributions. Your services are no longer required. We wish you the best in your future endeavors.
Fired. Not only from the Louvre but the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
My stomach drops. I pick up the phone and make a call. I tap my fingers on Papi’s cluttered desk in his small office at the restaurant where I’m sitting because the WIFI is better.
When my old supervisor, Dr. Rosenfeld, answers, his voice sounds cautious. “Tara,how are you?”
“Not good, Dr. R. I got an email saying I’m fired?”
There’s a pause, then a sigh heavy enough to make my chest ache. “I’m so sorry, Tara.”
“But—"
