It was jungle safari-themed.
Papa was going to get me a puppy. I just knew it.
I didn’t even know how long two months was. Hell, I didn’t know months, or weeks, how many days were in them. I wasthreeyears old.
I was still a baby.
I mean,Ididn’t think I was a baby. But I had no problem acting like one when the mood struck, because that’s what three-year-olds do.
Basically, I could walk, and talk, eat and sleep. I could feel joy, and pain…
Fear. Sadness.
Anger.
I could feel love, in terms of an emotional attachment to my family. A bond of adoration that I couldn’t explain, but then I had no reason to. My family was always there, so it didn’t matter.
They were never going anywhere. That’s what I thought, anyway.
Three-year-old me felt the standard infantile sensation of love for my family, simplistic in its underdevelopment. But he felt something stronger for Avianna.
My twin sister was a part of me. We were connected to one another inside Mami’s belly, holding hands until the very last second, when we had to let go so we could come out. That was what Mami said; that I didn’t want to let go because I was afraid to come out. But Avia promised me she’d be waiting for me, so I finally let go and let her leave me.
Only for three minutes, until I was born. I rushed out fast to be back with her, Mami said, and apparently Avia screamed her little lungs out until I showed up. After that, she didn’t cry once.
Avianna and I were two halves. Sure, we looked complete, on the outside. But inside, we knew we were supposed to still be joined. More than just holding hands… Like maybe she’d gotten some of my things by mistake, and I’d gotten some of hers.
Surely, I didn’t understand it then. I barely understand it now. But it was clear to me fairly early on that my sister was me, and I was her… In a sense.
Before that day, Avianna felt like a protector. Even though she was mere minutes older than me,shewas the strong one. The bold and daring one. Curious… Well, we both were that. But at three years old, Avianna was somehow a handful, and yet a permanent comfort. To the entire Alvarez family.
And me… I was the quiet one. The one who easily flew under the radar. I knew my mother worried about how quiet I was. She had a tendency to fuss over me. But for my father, I’m sure it was a relief that at least one of us was trying to make his life easier.
Let’s just say he had a lot on his plate.
Arturo Alvarez was married twice before my mother. The first time, to the love of his life—something he wouldn’t daresay in front of my mother—who passed away tragically when they were in their twenties. The second time, to a woman he probably wished had passed away, but who instead would forever be a thorn in his side. An expensive one.
By the time he married my mother, he was in his forties. This was never confirmed, but I don’t think Arturo Alvarez actually wanted children. Much to the chagrin of those who would prefer an heir of his to take over when he died, to ensure the business was passed on toblood, like it had been to him, and his father, and so on.
Truthfully, my father probably would have loved to raise children with Talia—his first wife—but that didn’t happen, and from what I’ve heard, he’d sort of accepted that. But when Acacia—my mother—came along, she wasn’t taking no for an answer.
And here we are.
Ever the realist, my father likely knew he might not make it to my eighteenth birthday. He would be nearing seventy by then. Part of me wonders if that’s why he took el marfil under his wing…
I was on the floor of the den in our home in Medellin, playing with my toys. I could see my sister outside, chasing the neighborhood cat that Mami wouldn’t let us keep, because in her words, “Extraviadas están sucias.”
Strays are dirty.
Mami was in the kitchen making dinner, and Papa was out in the garden talking to one of his friends. At least that’s what Mami called them. Papa had a lot of friends; people coming in and out of our house to see him.
A few of them were always around… Raul and Esteban, in particular. Big guys who stood by and stared. Sometimes they drove us in Papa’s cars. But they rarely spoke, and Mami acted like they weren’t even there.
So I did too. It was normal.
Still, I preferred our house in Bogota because it was quieter. Any time we stayed in this house, I knew I wouldn’t see much of my father. Of course at the time I didn’t understand why. All I knew was that Papa spoke to his friends much more than he spoke to us.
He was quiet too, but not like me…
