CHAPTER SEVEN
LILIANA
Ithink about the day Carlos asked me what I wanted to achieve in a year a lot. Back then, things had seemed so simple. The future had been bleak but I still had an inkling of what it would look like.
I still can’t believe I actually got pregnant from a one night stand.
A lullaby plays on my lips as Milagro Zaccari sleeps. She’s the cutest baby girl in the world. The most precious thing, too. She’s a beautiful, sweet baby, but she’s entirely her father’s daughter. Every time I look at her face, I see him.
And sometimes it scares me, but other times, it warms my heart. We made her together. Why wouldn’t she look like him? She’s just as much his as she is mine. But I know without a doubt there’s not an inch of darkness in my little girl. She inherited all the good parts. She’s the best of both of us.
Although a voice whispers in my mind sometimes, asking if my baby’s daddy actually had any good parts.
The sun sets in the horizon as I continue to rock the baby in my arms, careful not to wake her up. It’s serene here, peaceful around this time of the day. People will soon start arriving from work though, and with their arrival comes noise. Noise that’s sure to wake the baby.
I look down the street I grew up on. Not a lot has changed here in twenty-four years.
Same battered roofs, same rough road with potholes and gravel lining the edges.
Several of the neighbors’ lawns are overgrown, the roofs need fixing and their houses in dire need for repair.
But the people here are too busy to care about all that.
They’re out chasing their daily bread, trying their best to survive. Just like mama has always done.
I wanted to get her out of here, instead I fell right down the slopes myself. Shame wells within me, but I quell it with one look at my daughter’s face. It’s hard to regret my choices, when it led me to her.
Plus I can always pick myself up from the bottom of the slopes.
“Liliana, come here,” my mother calls out in Spanish from somewhere in the house.
I sigh, before getting to my feet slowly, hoping it won’t wake Mila. But it’s a lost cause. As soon as I move, her eyelids flutter open. My heart skips a tiny beat every time I look into her eyes. They’re the same as mine. So bright and beautiful.
“Hey, Mimi,” I murmur. “Did you have a nice nap?”
She smiles up at me, her little hand immediately going up to my hair. Her favorite thing to play with.
“No. You are not ruining my hair. I just brushed it for the first time in weeks,” I scold.
She giggles like I said something funny. Carrying her, I head into the house but once we’re in the living room, I set her down beside some of her toys. She’s already crawling so she immediately moves to grab one while I look towards the door of the kitchen, meeting my mother’s eyes.
If I had to describe my relationship with my mother, I’d say it’s complicated.
Has been since the day I grew a consciousness and could speak.
She’s probably the strongest person I know and has sacrificed so much for me to live a good life.
Which is why I was so terrified of how she would react when I showed up at her doorstep one month pregnant over a year ago.
I’m still waiting on the reaction.
Nothing ever really fazes Marisol Zaccari.
At 5 foot 3, she’s even shorter than me, with a slight stature and dark hair that stops above her shoulders.
But don’t let her physique fool you. I’ve seen her take down men twice as big as her.
She can be a tiger when she wants to be, with intimidating brown eyes and a mouth that’s always primed with a cutting remark or two.
I walk into the kitchen, making sure to keep an eye on Mila who’s blissfully distracted with her stuffed zebra.
“You have your I’m about to say something mean face, mama,” I point out lightly.
“This is my regular face,” she states, placing that hand that’s holding a spatula on her hips.
“What’s up?”
She frowns, “You have been sitting on your ass for far too long.”
I knew this was coming. She’s been pestering me about getting a job for months now. But the thought of waddling through this small town, only to get a job as a small time waitress at some diner or a part time job in front of a counter at a store has my heart clenching.
“I don’t want to go back to doing all those odd jobs, mama,” I say furtively. “I want something better for myself.”
Her eyes narrow, “You should have thought of that before you got pregnant. We take whatever life hands at us and we make the best of it. I’ve called Mr. Wells at the pizza place, he will give you a good job at his kitchen.”
“Washing dishes?” I ask sardonically. “That sounds like hell.”
“Hell is what you’ll experience once your savings run out and there’s nothing to feed you and my granddaughter. What is your plan?”
“I have a plan,” I say huffing out a breath. “I am going back to the city.”
“Over my dead body,” she screeches.
While she’s not aware of the particulars of my pregnancy, I did inform my mother that I had to make the same choice she did all those years ago when she had me.
I know my father’s out there somewhere, but my mother thought I’d live a better life if it was far away from him.
And now I’m in the exact same position as her. So she can’t be too judgmental.
The difference between my mother and I however, is that she was resolute in her decision to hide me away and raise me all on her own. While a part of me is still unsure if I did the right thing.
What if my daughter grows up to resent me for keeping her from her father?
I don’t resent my mother for the choices she made.
I know she did it with my best interests at heart.
But some nights I lie awake wondering who my father is.
All she told me was that he was someone dangerous.
And that going back to him might have meant her death.
But he’s also my flesh and blood. I’ve never tried to look for him and truthfully, I’ve never really needed a father.
But what if’s always run through my mind. Questions about my heritage and where I come from. I wonder if my father knows I exist. I wonder if he would care about me if he did.
Some part of me still can’t forget the night Mila was conceived. I only knew him for that small amount of time but more than a year later and it’s still burned in my heart. Logically, I know Rafaelle Vitale isn’t someone I want anywhere near my daughter.
So why does my heart still sing for him at times?
“Don’t be dramatic, mama,” I say on an eyeroll. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“I seriously doubt that, Liliana.”
I cross my arms over my chest, looking at her head on. Pretending that her lack of confidence in me doesn’t sting.
“So what? You want us to live here with you in this small house forever?”
“No one will come looking for you here,” she says stubbornly.
“It’s not sustainable,” I exhale gently. “In a couple of months, I’ll finish my courses. Once I get my degree, I’m out of here. And you can’t do anything to stop me.”
“You will not endanger my granddaughter.”
“For the love of God, mama!” I yell. When Mila’s head goes up, looking at us curiously, I quickly lower my voice, “Will you please just listen to me?”
Her eyes narrow but it’s clear she’s not going to change her mind. Not sure why I’m even bothering with an argument. When it comes to Marisol, your best option is always to act first, seek forgiveness later.
“I’m not going to be like you, mama,” I say tiredly, my expression softening.
“I’m not going to cower and hide for the rest of my life.
If I do that then what will happen to Mila?
She’ll grow up watching her mother work herself to death doing odd jobs that will never measure up.
She’ll watch me sacrifice my dreams and hopes for the future and she won’t even resent me for it.
She’ll resent herself. She’ll blame herself for it because if she hadn’t been born, she knows I would have had a better life.
And then she’ll try hard to give me that better life when she grows up as well.
But it’s not supposed to be her responsibility,” I say softly, fighting back tears.
The pained expression on my mother’s face slices through my chest but she needs to hear this.
“I’m not going to let history repeat itself with my daughter. I have to make better choices. Maybe there’s a way for me to have it all.”
“Or you lose it all.”
“I won’t lose my daughter,” I state fiercely.
She’s all that matters.
“Oh, mi Nina,” my mother says, her voice dulling. “History’s already repeating itself and I fear none of us can stop it.”
With those words, she leaves the kitchen, heading to take a seat on the old grey couch that I’m sure will outlive me. Mila immediately crawls to her grandmother who lifts her in her arms, cradling her to her chest. I watch them for a couple of minutes, trying to find my resolution once again.
It doesn’t matter what my mother says. I have a plan and I’m going to see it through. No matter what it takes.
In a way, giving birth to Mila was exactly what gave me the strength to follow my dreams.
* * *
A couple days later, I decide to leave home in the dead of the night.
Lifting Mila out of her crib, I carry my sleeping baby to my mother’s room and set her down in the bassinet next to my mother’s bed.
I watch them both for a couple of moments.
They’re fast asleep, their expressions soft and serene.
They’re mine to protect. Before Mila was born, all I had was my mother and now my heart has grown three sizes.
Mama will wake up in about an hour. She’s like a human alarm clock that rises at 6am and goes to sleep by 10pm.
I only have about thirty minutes to leave before she wakes up and realizes I’m gone.