Chapter 42
VALENTINA
The house still smelled exactly the same. Like lemon. Cleaner, not the fruit.
Balloons were taped all over the walls—bright pink and purple, and way too many of them, because apparently, Isabel believed balloon minimalism was a crime punishable by death.
The birthday banner was hanging over the dining table, crooked and sagging right in the middle, exactly like it had been when Lucia turned six—except this time, it was my messy handwriting sprawled across it, declaring, “Feliz Cumpleanos, Lucia!”
God. Another year. Another birthday. I could’ve sworn I was just here yesterday, trying my absolute hardest not to look bored out of my mind or counting the minutes until I could sneak out for a cigarette.
Time was funny. No—scratch that. Time was kind of a jerk.
It dragged you forward whether you were kicking and screaming or finally calm enough to tie your shoelaces without falling over.
It never cared if you were ready; if you’d done the dishes or paid your taxes or figured out how to tell your sister about your super-secret marriage without hyperventilating into a paper bag.
Time was deeply personal. It stole from you quietly, casually, like a pickpocket in a crowded street, and by the time you realized something was missing, it was already halfway down the block, blending into the crowd.
But tonight, standing here amid balloons and relatives and cupcakes I definitely had not baked myself, surrounded by chaos and noise and so much love it made my chest hurt, I realized something else about time. Something I’d spent most of my life ignoring.
Sometimes, time gave back.
Not perfectly. Not neatly. Not wrapped up with a nice little bow. But it gave moments. Real, messy, crooked moments, kind of like my handwriting on that banner. Moments worth remembering. Worth keeping. Worth all the endless kicking and screaming it had taken to get here.
And this time I planned to keep every single one.
The house was crowded with family. Uncle Luis was arguing loudly with Uncle Tito about some soccer game neither of them had actually watched. My cousins—too many to count—were hovering near the food table, pretending they weren’t going for thirds.
Isabel was darting around in full mother-hen mode, balancing a plate of cupcakes while trying to keep Mama from getting out of the wheelchair she insisted she did not need.
“I feel fine, Isa,” she huffed, swatting away Isabel’s hands with her stubborn pride. “You’re making me feel like I’m ninety.”
I watched from a distance, smiling softly, because some things never changed: Mama’s independence, Isabel’s protective worrying, and me, still standing on the edge taking it all in.
But this time, the difference was, I didn’t feel like an outsider anymore.
I felt part of it—really, genuinely part of it.
Don’t get me wrong—things hadn’t magically healed overnight. Mama was still sick. She still had days that were harder than others and still pretended everything was fine even when it clearly wasn’t.
Isabel and I were still tiptoeing around each other, awkwardly relearning how to talk without the conversation immediately nosediving into passive-aggressive commentary about money or responsibility or “that time Valentina forgot to pick up Lucia from school”—which, by the way, had happened exactly one time, years ago, and no one was ever going to let me forget it.
And yes, obviously, I was still a recovering alcoholic, with all the charming baggage that came along with it. But things were better. Actually better, in a subtle, sneaky way that caught me by surprise when I wasn’t looking.
It wasn’t perfect, because families weren’t perfect.
Families were messy and loud and sometimes exhausting—like trying to put together IKEA furniture while drunk, which was something I’d recommend never doing, by the way.
But family was also warm and familiar and necessary in ways I’d spent far too many years pretending to ignore.
I glanced toward the front window, spotting Marco’s car parked outside. Lucia was tugging at his sleeve, babbling enthusiastically as he leaned down to listen, nodding patiently.
God, that man was suspiciously good with kids. It was honestly concerning, and something I’d definitely have to interrogate him about later. But for now I just watched, feeling a weirdly warm twist in my chest. Marco belonged here somehow, in ways I’d never imagined he would.
He belonged in this house, with Lucia tugging impatiently at his hand and Isabel loudly critiquing Mama’s refusal to accept help.
He belonged in the chaos—in my chaos.
Lucia burst through the front door, eyes wide with excitement as she scanned the crowded room.
“Feliz Cumpleanos!” we all shouted, making her giggle wildly as she raced toward Mama, throwing her tiny arms around her grandmother with enough impact to topple them both.
“Mi princesa,” Mama murmured, cupping Lucia’s little face. “Seven already! You’re getting too big.”
Lucia nodded solemnly. “I’m practically a grown-up.”
Isabel rolled her eyes dramatically. “Another grown-up who doesn’t clean her room.”
Lucia laughed, squirming free and running straight toward me. She crashed into my legs, hugging me tightly around the waist. “Vale, there’s a bounce house! Did you see?”
“Of course I saw,” I teased, smoothing back her hair gently. “Who do you think ordered it?”
“Really?” Her eyes widened, suitably impressed, but then they turned thoughtful. “Is it because you want to bounce too?”
“Maybe,” I admitted, biting back a smile. “Mostly, I got it so you’d think I’m the best aunt ever.”
She nodded enthusiastically and pulled me toward the back yard. “You are. But come on—I need face paint too. Mama said you were doing it.”
“Right,” Isabel called loudly, overhearing. “Because Valentina always follows through on plans she volunteers for.” She paused dramatically, handing out juice boxes like they were party favors. “Maybe she’ll even stick around for cake this time.”
I shot her a look.
We’re still working on it . . .
But I didn’t argue. Mostly because she wasn’t completely wrong.
I could pretend it didn’t sting, or I could just accept it—accept that trust and forgiveness took more time than I wanted them to.
And that was okay. Because as exhausting as it was to admit, Isabel had earned the right to be skeptical.
Outside, the bounce house towered like a giant neon-colored castle, packed full of shrieking, hyperactive children who’d clearly had way too much sugar.
I set up shop on the patio table with a colorful palette of face paints and brushes that I was maybe a little too excited to use.
Lucia sat down, instantly listing off her very specific face-painting demands—something involving unicorns and rainbows and possibly glitter.
A lot of glitter.
I hated glitter. With a passion usually reserved for people who chewed loudly in movie theaters or men who wore socks with sandals.
Glitter was everywhere, infecting everything it touched, impossible to remove.
It was basically the herpes of craft supplies.
But Lucia’s eyes had near sparkled with her request, and I’d never exactly had a lot of willpower when it came to my niece.
“Vale,” she said after a moment, squirming impatiently while I attempted something vaguely unicorn-shaped on her cheek. “Did you know Mama said I could have a sleepover at your house next weekend? Uncle Marco said we can feed the ducks! He promised, so don’t let him forget.”
Uncle Marco.
I paused mid-brushstroke and glanced at Marco.
He was standing across the yard near the patio railing, still wearing his suit and tie, sleeves neatly cuffed at the wrist, looking entirely out of place surrounded by my uncles in their shorts and faded T-shirts.
They crowded him like he was some rare species, bombarding him with questions about his job, sports, and probably whether he preferred beer or tequila—the usual De La Vega interrogation tactics. Marco handled them easily.
“Really?” I asked. “Well, we’d better stay true to that promise, huh?”
She nodded, and we both looked at Marco again.
He’d come straight from the office, not even pausing long enough to ditch his suit jacket or loosen his tie, even though it was a thousand degrees outside and humid enough to feel like a rainforest. He’d done this more times than I could count—made room in a schedule that had zero room left in it, all for Lucia. All for this family.
He didn’t even complain about it—not that he complained about much besides my occasional habit of leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor (which was admittedly annoying, but still).
I knew he’d spent the afternoon buried in paperwork, phone calls, negotiations—the kind of tedious tasks I’d spent my entire life actively avoiding. But he’d made sure he’d gotten here anyway, on time, even managing to grab Lucia from school.
Sometimes, when I was feeling especially reflective (overthinking at 3:00 a.m., when I couldn’t sleep), I wondered why he did all this. I wasn’t exactly na?ve. I knew Marco cared—more deeply and quietly than anyone I’d ever met—but the ways he showed his care never failed to catch me off-guard.
He never mentioned his quiet acts of kindness. Never pointed out when he was doing something purely because he knew it mattered to me. He just did them, silently and without fanfare, like it was a given. Like caring about someone meant quietly absorbing their burdens without making a show of it.