Epilogue
ALASKA
My nephew’s first word isn’t mom, or dad, or water.
He goes and blurts out “grandma,” in front of the whole clan.
I swear on my atrocious bookmark collection: he’s not staring at the ceiling or talking to the router.
He locks eyes with Sabina, accusing finger up, brow arched full Popov.
The little tyrant points and makes it clear he came to hand out insecurities.
Sabina clutches her chest. She doesn’t keel over, but she has a prestige micro–heart attack.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” slips out of her.
I’ve already got the laugh jammed somewhere between my neck and my skull.
Vega covers her face, extreme secondhand embarrassment.
Mikel claps on reflex—ever since he started watching magicians on YouTube, it just happens—and I don’t know if he’s waiting for rabbits, more grandmas, or a miracle.
Irina smiles on the inside; in her language, that’s a single finger twitch. Julia doesn’t even hesitate:
“Fair. This kid knows what he’s talking about.”
Amaia whips out a cookie to see if the poet will repeat it. Ana, who never misses a chance to needle Sabina, lifts her beer and toasts, delighted:
“To the titles kids bestow on you.”
Luna and Martina start screaming for an encore.
This is basically the en d? o f? year karaoke, only with bibs.
Svet scribbles “critical vocabulary” in her notebook, with that teacher handwriting of hers.
Vera argues it should be “auntie” first. And Rashel, in full DIY mode, turns a bib into a “TEAM SABI” sign.
Me, the aunt with zero filter or shame, I fold in half laughing and have to grab onto Nat because I’m about to float out of my body. In my head I’m already a tabloid host telling the blonde granny her grandkids will be poets, she can relax. I don’t say it. Yet.
Nat is at my side, shoulder to shoulder.
She laughs, but she doesn’t take her eyes off Robin, because any second now we’re about to make it rain confetti and they’ll leave him upside down.
I tap her wrist to say I’m still here; she answers with two taps that, in our language, means “with you.” I want to make a WhatsApp sticker out of that dumb little thing.
We’re in the west wing of the mansion, which isn’t a wing anymore; it’s two full houses after the express remodel by Irina.
Between us, I love this zone, but there’s enough wood and outlets to wallpaper an HGTV set.
We’ve got two min i? nations: La República del Sol , the Veg a? Mike l? Robin version, with space for serious naps and a corner to worship vitamin D; and our cav e? commune, Nat’s and my place, which looks like a public library with shelves that scare you and bathrooms that delight you.
The bed is enormous; it takes me a while to cross it, and sometimes I use my phone flashlight to locate Nat.
We love it, yeah, but we still sneak off to the treehouse. A hundred feet up, a staircase that commands respect, and the freedom to be idiots without a kid audience. Blessed airplane mode.
So we’re sprawled in the living room when Sabina launches into her drama and addresses Robin:
“I am not a grandma, sweetheart. I’m… Her Majesty in training.”
Robin doesn’t blink. He shuts it down:
“Grandma.”
An al l? out laugh fest breaks loose. Nobody holds back.
There are snor t? laughs, clapping, chairs scraping.
I’m dying. Vega spirals. Mikel tries to hide the tear.
Nat smiles with her poker face, but I know her and she’s cackling inside.
I just want to grab my phone, open TikTok, and soundtrack it with stadium applause, but I hold back because Sabina is already giving me that “record me and I’ll kill you” face.
In the middle of that chaos, my mothe r? i n? law shows up.
Yeah, you read that right: my mothe r? i n? law.
Nat’s mom plants herself there with a tower of Tupperware, lids that go pop and labels on top.
Each one weighs about two pounds, plus she brings empanada, meatballs, and—attention—some mysterious thing that’s insanely good; ask what it is and she’ll put you to work setting the table and tell you to hush.
She drops her classic from the Worldwide Mom Council:
“If you don’t eat, you die. And I’m not raising this whole crew by myself; I already have my hands full with the others.”
She gives us the onc e? over and I can already see charts, schedules, and penalties.
My mood flips in a second, because this woman owns me: she shows up, orders, feeds, and leaves you with zero excuses.
Tell her it’s not necessary and she loads you up with a double tray, the good bread, and a ridiculous stack of napkins.
I want to be that intense and decisive when my big crisis hits; for now I adore her quietly and wonder if I’ll ever be able to turn down a Tupperware without getting kicked out of Nat’s family WhatsApp group.
Between us, what cracks me up is thinking how I used to see Nat in invincibl e? boss mode—cold, hard to read, all mystery and shutters down. Turns out she’s not that at all: she’s a professional softie with a tw o? step user manual and eyes that calm me instantly.
Sabina goes full theater and drops the complaint of the year.
"Can someone explain why the kid says 'grandma' before 'mama'?"
Julia gives her a pity face and can’t stop a laugh.
"Maybe because you won’t stop telling him, ‘not grandma,’ babe."
And there it is. You can tell who the family’s Jedi is.
Meanwhile, I lose half a minute fantasizing that the kid calls her Supreme Empress, I throw a dollar-store costume cape on her and hand her a mop handle—boom, instant scepter—but I snap back fast, because in my house reality is always two steps ahead of whatever nonsense I make up. Thankfully.
Irina is glued to the corner, the sentry at the gate. She doesn’t twitch an eyebrow, just watches us like she’s about to catalog every speck of lint on your pants.
It’s been long enough since that night in the grove for a new season of any show to have dropped, but nobody here opens their mouth about it.
And when I say nobody, I mean nobody. Not even a meme went around.
Still, it has Irina written all over it.
You can tell when things are the premium, made-by-her edition; when she makes a move, no one knows until you’re already inside the plan.
Weird silences settle in, they don’t last, and they end in confessions you never saw coming.
We got the interrogation straight out of a cheesy cop show, but without the hot cop—just the blandest room in history.
We were well coached by Malagamba and the lawyer, but still, Vega—what a genius—showed up with her bump, took a deep breath, looked at the ceiling, and pulled off a tender performance with a level of poise that would make Zendaya jealous at an awards show. The officer melted.
"Are you okay?" he blurted, pale.
"I need air," Vega said softly, in that Instagram Live voice like she’s about to cry.
And instantly—tissues, water, candy, a better chair, and a promise to wrap it up fast. I was torn between laughing and freaking out, because she answered only what was needed—well-timed pauses, controlled mystery, not one extra detail. She’s the queen of the poker face; she doesn’t even blink.
We walked out feeling off, hungry, sleepy, with that emptiness a plan leaves when it didn’t go right or wrong, just…
weird. I nodded at everything so I wouldn’t explode, and inside I could already see myself in Paris studying criminology and launching a true-crime podcast I’d record over breakfast, or straight up on an island with Nat, no neighbors, an industrial pot of popcorn, and my peace.
If anyone stops me, I’ll say I’m in drama rehab.
Don Jota and Mauro? Case closed. They’re out. I can’t even summon their faces—and I’m good with faces—but with them, nothing. Irina keeps it all neatly filed in her head under a folder called " Resolved Cases ," and that’s where they go. No drama.
Word in the halls is the ones who needed to fall finally fell. Everyone knew in two minutes. Those networks nobody could get into are now dismantled, name by name, and the ones who were in charge aren’t anymore. Irina and the others left it all tied up with a bow.
"Everybody stop and listen up," Luna bellows, standing on a chair. "The kid is about to drop ‘grandma’ for the third time. Repeats are fine, but only the kind we rehash at Christmas Eve dinner."
Svet raises her hand like we’re taking turns.
"Make him say ‘cousin.’ The gig comes with a seat and drama, right?"
Mikel, sporting the under-eye bags of someone cramming for the civil service exam, pleads with shaky faith.
"Make him say ‘nap,’ for the love of the pillow."
Amaia is handing out slices of ham at music-festival speed.
"Make him say ‘ham.’ If we don’t start with the basics, nobody inherits a thing."
Rashel cracks up and points at the baby.
"Have him say ‘Nana’ instead of ‘grandma.’"
Sabina pins her with a look that erases her laugh and her pride in the same frame. Then she grabs the baby and hoists him up, official-portrait stance, drool and zero protocol.
I soak up the chaos, family at full blast, bread passing from hand to hand, the volume rising.
My brain’s running way too fast for its own good, my new life crashing into the old one and no one notices because I fake it better than I probably should.
Now I’m an aunt, clingy edition. And I went big and published my first book.
I want to make a T-shirt that says that, or a pin, and then I chicken out from sheer embarrassment and go quiet, brushing crumbs like it’s my job.