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As we rumble along the pier and onto a slender road, I take in my surroundings. Shirtless children shout and chase after a soccer ball in an overgrown field. Clusters of elderly people chat on benches, arms carving their words into the air. A pack of men in sweat-stained shirts huddles around a dusty bocce ball court. Their game shudders to a halt as we pass, their stares following me. Looking away, I push my sunglasses closer to my face.

The air vibrates with the buzz of cicadas as we weave around quaint homes, some boasting lush gardens, others with clothes hanging up to dry. I catch a glimpse of a small pizzeria, followed by an unassuming supermarket with middle-aged men slumped against the exterior, smoking and drinking beer. Groves of olive trees pop in and out of view, their gnarled branches dappling my vision with hues of dusty green and silver.

There isn’t a bus or car in sight. Maybe the golf carts are not the preferred means of transportation, but the only means. Tolba had looked small on the map, a speck off the coast of Croatia, but I hadn’t realized how small it would feel in real life. The irony stings—my mom came from an island with no cars, only to die at the hands of one.

As we drive through a courtyard dotted with miniature palm trees and a tall, white church at its center, I study Luka out of the corner of my eye. A dark, closely trimmed beard shadows his tanned face, dominated by a strong nose, while his hair is long, some strands grazing his jawline. It’s a bit disheveled, like he might’ve just rolled out of bed. Maybe that’s why he seemed so grumpy on the pier. I have to admit he’s handsome. In a rugged way, as if his features were forged from the island itself.

“So, you’re Karmela’s neighbor?” I ask, still mulling her absence at the pier.

“Mm-hmm.” His dark sunglasses turn toward me, a frown carved beneath them. “What part of America are you from?” he asks begrudgingly. As if someone’s forcing him to play the role of friendly guide.

“California.”

“Ah. So, Hollywood, then.”

“No, San Francisco.”

“But Hollywood, it’s in California.”

“I guess?” I’d never been.

We both go quiet as the golf cart rattles over a rough patch in the road. Then he tries again. “And this is your first time on Tolba?” I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but there seems to be a hint of judgment in his voice.

My lips twist into a scowl. I would’ve come sooner if I’d known I had family here. But my mom had raised me on a carefully curated story:

My grandfather had died of heatstroke when she was only a child.

My dad had died of pneumonia.

And my grandmother—she had died in the Homeland War in the ’90s, when Croatia fought for its independence from Yugoslavia. Which was why my mom left, having no family to tie her to this place any longer.

A holy trinity of sorrows that I never questioned—until I found the letters from Karmela in the attic of my childhood home. They dated as far back as 1997, the year I was born, growing more sporadic and heart-wrenching as the years went on.

Dear Marija, Why have you gone to America? Please come back home.

Dear Marija, Did you receive my last letter?

Dear Marija, How could you have abandoned me?

A flood of emotions had overcome me: confusion, anger, betrayal. How could she lie to me, her own daughter? Didn’t I deserve to know the truth? I get we weren’t close—not like we used to be—but this was absurd. To keep my grandmother from me, to keep me from her.

Yet amidst all that turmoil, a seed of hope bloomed. At a time when I thought I had no one left, I suddenly gained someone new. Karmela was my second chance to make things right. To cherish family, like I always should have.

But Luka doesn’t need to know all those details. He probably wouldn’t believe it all anyway. “Yes,” I say simply, hoping he doesn’t probe further.

He seems to ponder this. “We get a lot of people from America coming here in the summer. You know, to stay connected to their roots, visit relatives. Family is important here.” This time, the judgment in his voice is clear.

I grit my teeth, biting back an angry retort. “It’s complicated.”

By the way his eyebrow lifts, I can tell he’s skeptical.

“How long have you known Karmela?” I ask, if only to change the subject.

“All my life,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. The certainty of his reply hits me like a blow, knocking any follow-up questions from my mind. Jealousy and resentment simmer in my gut as I think of the bond Karmela and I might’ve shared if my mom had never lied. So much lost time.

You’re here now, I soothe myself. That’s what matters.

“That’s nice,” I say to Luka, even though it’s not.