The end of an era. A new beginning.
I stand outside the patio doors of Delgado Cocina, watching the light shift across the tables. It’s wild how different I am from the young girl who started working here years ago wearing baggy trousers and sweatshirts.
Now I prefer form-fitting clothes to display my figure. I’m not uncomfortable, I’m proud to show off my body. I don’t have anyone to hide from anymore, including myself.
Out on the patio, laughter rises and spills into the warm air. Strings of paper lanterns extend between trees, glowing pale and soft like moons caught in the branches. Someone’s set out the sangria. The scent of roasted tomato and saffronrice floats out from Rafael’s kitchen, a scent I’ve come to associate with care.
The Delgado's didn’t know much about me when they hired me at seventeen. They still don’t know all the sordid details of my upbringing. Enough to understand why I needed time off for therapy and how to support me if I had a panic attack.
It’s not like I don’t trust them, I do. After all, even though my references were paper-thin, they gave me a good job. Ana consistently encouraged me without asking too many questions. Each night, Rafael provided me with a to-go box filled with enough food for a few days. Lucas was oblivious, always babbling on and joking. Rosa never coddled me in her own strive for perfection in the restaurant. Marcella, though, she noticed more than she let on.
She’s twenty-five, in her first year at a big law firm called Finney Cooper. She made it possible for me to become the woman I am today. Healed. Excited. Thriving. About to leave for a trip I never believed possible.
In addition to some of my favorite customers, my roommates are all here. Wren’s spent the better part of the evening making sure the playlist is perfectly calibrated to melancholy, but hopeful. Macie’s already slipped into the kitchen twice to hug Ana and steal bites of plantains. Safiya declared the sangria non-alcoholic and therefore unacceptable and started adding tequila from her purse like a rogue priest blessing a punch bowl.
In every corner of this space, I feel it:
Found family.
I’ve been to hell and back trying to reclaim who I am over the past few years. These are the people I’ve leaned on. For my livelihood. Friendship. Support. Normalcy.
Marcella stands near the bar, holding a glass of cava. “Avonna, come on up here. I have a few words to say before the nightends.”
Blushing, I hide my face behind my hand. Being the center of attention still nudges an old reflex to cower. I’m learning to stay with it.
Not long ago, being the center of attention in a room like this would’ve hollowed me out. Reclaiming myself hasn’t been one single moment or limited to intensive sex therapy. It’s been purposeful, layered mind work to help me cope with day-to-day life in the real world.
In a recent session, we explored the reason why I brought the guitar with me the night I ran. It was bulky, obvious. Bound to slow me down when I needed to disappear. I grabbed it anyway, like instinct, and have never let it go.
Retrospectively, somehow I knew I’d need it. First to survive and make money. Now to heal. Recently, music found me again when words alone weren’t enough. I started taking voice lessons, then guitar. Played my first set in the corner of a coffee shop, hands trembling, heart loud in my chest.
Each time I return to the mic, it gets a little easier. Songwriting helps me speak from the places I used to keep locked away. Music has become my altar. My voice, my devotion. Singing has become a quiet form of worship. My own kind of prayer. It connects me to something deeper, not outside myself, within.
When I sing the songs I write, I feel present. Honest. Whole. One verse at a time.
I make my way up to stand beside Marcella. Turn and face the small crowd.
“We’re here for Avonna Parilla.” She raises the glass with her usual eloquent style. “She didn’t arrive in a straight line. She took the long way. Came through the fire and has made it look like grace. Our girl has fought to become real, and now it’s time for her to spread her wings.”
The last line hits something deep in my chest. I breathe through it.
“To Avonna,” the crowd echoes and raise their glasses.
“Thank you for coming.” I glance around at the crowd. “I’m so grateful for each of you. As nervous as I am about this new adventure, having you in my life makes me feel strong enough to take it.”
I take a drink of my cava like I’ve earned it.
I have.
Later, after a delicious dessert of churros and mango tart, guests begin to depart after laughter, hugs, and photos. I take a moment and duck inside to the restaurant, sitting on a stool near the kitchen door.
Marcella approaches quietly. She hands me a small leather wallet. Gold-foiled with my name on the front. Inside is my passport. A folded note and my boarding pass.
“You’re the first person I ever helped,” she says. “You’ll always be my first client. Thank you for trusting me to know you, Avonna. You’ll always be my other sister.”
When Marcella was twenty-two and about to enter law school, she took me aside me one day and asked if I had a legal ID. When I told her I’d lost it, she didn’t interrogate me. She offered to get me a new one.
I open the passport and look down at the photo. I’m not smiling in it. I didn’t know if I was allowed to. The name underneath is clear.
