“That’s smart,” I say, grateful for the shift to safer ground. “Children who grow up in multilingual environments develop remarkable cognitive flexibility. Their brains form neural pathways that enhance problem-solving skills and cultural awareness.”
The professional distance feels safer than acknowledging how Zoey is growing into someone I might actually want to know, not just analyze from a safe emotional distance.
“Really?” Callie looks up from her prep work, genuinely interested. “I wondered about that. Some of the pediatric literature suggests multilingual kids might have developmental delays, but she seems so advanced.”
“That’s outdated research,” I say, warming to the topic despite myself. “Language acquisition is exponentially easier before age five. And those supposed delays? They’re usually just processing time. The kids are sorting multiple language systems simultaneously. It’s actually fascinating to observe.”
“Her vocabulary is definitely exploding,” Callie says, smiling warmly at her stepdaughter. “Yesterday she told Mason she wanted ‘more azul blocks’ for her tower. Mixing languages mid-sentence like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”
She eyes me askance for a beat. “That’s the most attention you’ve paid to her since we brought her home at the end of January. And after what happened last week?—”
She trails off and my stomach churns. The memory is still too fresh—how I’d frozen when Zoey had reached for me that morning after the wedding, the familiar terror rising in my throat. How different it felt from last week, when the choice was mine to make and unmake.
I slice through the tomato, the knife hitting the cutting board with a solid thunk. “If being more analytical about her helps me be around her, then that’s what I need to do. This move wasn’t just about me starting fresh.”
Vicente and Arturo’s session yesterday keeps surfacing—how they’d talked about chosen family with such casual certainty. How they’d mentioned Mason and Callie as part of their extended household, woven into the fabric of their lives through Celeste and their shared history.
“You’re my family, Cal. I want to be here for you and Mason, and for Zoey. I want to look forward to seeing her grow up. Her and any other kids you two have.” My voice catches slightly. “I don’t want what happened to me—what I went through—to change that.”
Callie stops what she’s doing, really looks at me. “Nina.” Her voice is soft, grateful, but also knowing. She knows what I’m talking about—the trauma that shaped me, the fear that’s followed me since I was eight years old. “That means everything to me. To us. And you don’t have to force anything—just being willing to try is enough.”
She returns to her prep work, but there’s warmth in the silence now. I glance around the kitchen—it’s quiet without Mason’s mom flitting about, trying to do too much. “Where is Marcella?”
“Market run. She’ll be back soon.”
“How’s she doing with the driving?” I ask, eager to move away from the emotional territory we’ve been skirting.
“Better every week. Her right hand still gets tired easily, but her spatial processing has bounced back beautifully.” Callie’s voice carries the quiet pride of someone who’s watched a miracle unfold in increments. “The neuroplasticity at her age is remarkable, especially considering how severe her stroke was last winter. We weren’t sure she’d ever drive again.”
She glances toward Zoey, who’s still absorbed in her construction project. “Actually, I think Zoey’s vocabulary explosion has partly been because she and Marcella were practicing together. The speech therapy sessions became this shared adventure.”
I nod. Marcella and Zoey, rebuilding language together—each one helping the other remember. The parallel isn’t lost on me.
“She’s modified her dance routine, but her neurologist thinks her dance background actually gave her an advantage,” Callie continues, skewering vegetables on bamboo sticks. “Years of training built neural pathways that survived the stroke damage. Her cerebellum compensated beautifully—her brain essentially had backup systems from decades of movement memory.”
“Sar...ah...bellum,” comes a small voice from the living room.
We both look up to find Zoey standing in the middle of her toys, wooden block in hand, her face scrunched in concentration as she carefully pronounces each syllable.
Callie and I exchange startled glances before bursting into laughter.
“I think we’ve been busted for speaking doctor,” I say, watching Zoey’s proud expression.
“Maybe we should stick to English a two-year-old can understand,” Callie agrees, beaming at her stepdaughter. “Though apparently she’s picking up medical terminology faster than I expected, along with French and Spanish. This child’s brain is just as fascinating as her grandmother’s. But enough about us.” Her voice softens. “Tell me how the new job’s going.”
“First sessions went well,” I say. “Better than expected, actually.”
“Good clients?”
I pause, considering how much I can say. “Complex. But genuine. They want to do the work.”
Callie doesn’t push for details. She knows the boundaries of my job, respects them. Instead, she hands me a lime and starts pulling cilantro leaves from their stems.
“And the team?”
“Darius makes incredible coffee and notices everything. Lucia could probably hack the Pentagon from her phone. They’re good people.”
“But?”
