“But I know the truth, mija. I know how hard it’s been for you to let him go and move on. That’s why you won’t paint the restaurant for me. That’s why you don’t want to let go of this journal. But you need to let him go—my Isabellita. I know you can do it. He would want you to move on and live your life managing the restaurant and caring for me. He wouldn’t want you to be chasing words in a book.”
She pulls me in again, squeezing as hard as she can.
I pull away and stare at her, my chest tightening. Managing the restaurant and caring for her? Is that what she thinks my life is supposed to be? My entire existence, reduced to running the restaurant and making sure she’s okay? That’s not living. It’s surviving. It’s waking up every day trapped in the same routine, in the same walls my father built, with no room to breathe, to dream, to do anything more than keep things from falling apart.
I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “That’s not what he would’ve wanted. Not for me.”
She tilts her head, her eyes softening as if she’s trying to comfort me. But all I feel is suffocated. “He loved the restaurant, Isa. And he loved you. He would’ve wanted you to carry on his legacy. I think it’s time you give me the journal, mija, and move on from this little hunt. The restaurant is what keeps him alive.”
Without saying another word, I slowly walk past my mother, toward the dresser. Have I been using his journal as another way to keep his memory alive for a little longer? Has it all been fake? Was there ever a big secret to discover? I start to feel silly, as if I made everything up. As mad as it makes me, my mother isn’t wrong. I haven’t been able to move on from my father. I never coped with his sickness, and I felt so much guilt when he suddenly passed away. I wasn’t there for him. I was away at college, trying to get a degree in business so I could help him run the restaurant, and then he was gone. This journal has brought so much of him back for me. I’ve learned things about him that I haven’t ever known. Even if the puzzle is fake, his words are still real to me—all of them.
I slowly pull the journal out of my bag. I give it a good look. The leather-bound cover is wearing down around the edges. A few pages inside have unattached from the spine and stick out slightly. It may be in somewhat rough shape, but it shows how many adventures it’s been on. How many of his memories live inside. I open the cover and see the photo of him sitting beside me as a baby. I look over my shoulder slightly and see if my mother is staring. She’s back to taking pictures of the stupid new tennis bracelet she took. I turn back around and slowly peel the photo out of the journal, trying my best not to tear the page. Finally, I pull the photograph out, sighing in relief that she didn’t notice. I hide it in my bag for a moment.
“Here,” I say. I toss the journal to her on the bed and return to the dresser.
I pull the photo slowly out of my bag to look at it closer. To see my father’s large grin under his thick, black mustache. I feel warm. He seems so excited to be next to me. I rub my hand slowly on the perforated edge of the ripped side. I wonder who else was in this photo. Maybe it was my mother, and he didn’t want her in the shot? If he had a secret lover, as I may have found out with his clues, it’s possible he resented her as well. The way he’s sitting in the photo, though. It’s strange. The picture is cut right by his right arm, as if he was holding something else in his hand. Or someone else. It could have been my mother, but why would she sit on his other side and not next to me? I can’t seem to shake these thoughts. I wish I could have the journal for a moment longer to figure this out. What is my father trying to tell me? Some of the pages felt like memories he wanted to preserve—simple snapshots of our lives, like the ones from my quinceañera. But others…they feel like more than that. Almost as if he wanted me to find something. As if he left a trail on purpose. It’s hard to tell where the memories end and the clues begin. Maybe that was his intention all along—to show me a mixture of both.
Without thinking, I turn the photo around to see if anything is on the back. To my surprise, I see my father’s handwriting, but half of it is cut off by the rip. I look closer to see what it says.
os hijitas
Os? I’m not sure what that is. But hijitas. That’s the plural of daughter. Could it be dos hijitas? Two daughters? Do I…have a sister?
My heart pounds in my ears as I reread his words in my head. It’s not Silvana. It’s not Valentina. There’s only one person I’m sure it can be: Sofia. I feel sick. I hold on to the dresser, trying to contain my anger as I process this realization. That’s why Sofia has a letter from my father too. He was in love with Rosita. They dated. Sofia was born. I have so many questions, and only one person in this room can answer them.
“I know the truth,” I say.
“Que dices?” My mother looks up at me, confused.
“The big secret Papi was trying to reveal to me. I finally figured it out. You took the journal to prevent me from figuring it out, but you were too late.”
The expression on Mariposa’s face begins to shift from confusion to realization.
“Isabella, there is no big secret. I told you.”
“Stop fucking lying to me!” I shout, startling her.
“Isabella!”
“No. I’m done with your manipulations and lies. Your fakeness. Your obsession with pretending to be perfect. Your constant disapproval of me. And now you’re gaslighting me into thinking that everything my father wrote in his journal doesn’t mean anything when I know it does. I have been reading it all week. I’ve discovered things already. You’re too fucking late. I know the truth, Mari.”
That is the first time I have ever called my mother by her first name to her face, but it just felt right.
She stands up and crosses her arms, a slight smirk growing on her face as if she’s caught my bluff.
“Okay then, Isabellita. What’s the big secret?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” I retort.
“But you said you already know, verdad? So just tell me.”
I shake my head and laugh. “You really think I don’t know?”
“Isa, I think you’re just too caught up in trying to make something up to make yourself feel better.”
“Is that so?” I chuckle. “Then explain this.”
I dangle the photo in front of my mother’s face.
