Chapter 24 #2
“My mother rarely spent time with me once the twins were born. When I reached ninth grade, I had to fend for myself. Public school lunches held me over for some nights, and then, when my father didn’t have to work night shifts, he cooked.
But nothing really stuck. He’d promised to set aside some time, but then he passed away. So… that was the end of that.”
“Are you close with any of your other relatives?”
I stare at the countertop, watching sunlight angle across the marble, and try to formulate an answer that doesn’t sound like a eulogy.
“My mother’s family basically decided I don’t exist, so we don’t talk.
Sometimes it felt like I was a reminder she’d rather forget.
On my father’s side—” I swallow, the old bitterness catching in my throat.
“They’re mostly in the Dominican Republic.
And the few left in the States, they’re scattered.
Most of them moved out of the city, started families of their own, drifted.
” I take a breath. “There’s my aunt Maria and my nana—my papá’s mom.
They’re upstate, in a little house outside Poughkeepsie.
Sometimes Aunt Maria calls, but only to check if I’m alive or to remind me of a birthday.
Nana doesn’t speak English, and she’s hard of hearing, so our phone calls are basically me shouting ‘Te quiero’ three times and hanging up. ”
My memories of them are strange, like watching an old telenovela rerun in a language you know half the words to.
I remember long car trips with my papá, the windows down, the warm, briny smell of the Hudson drifting in as he sang along to old salsa on the radio.
I remember Aunt Maria’s kitchen, always smelling like garlic, always a loud party even on a Tuesday morning—plastic tablecloth, mismatched coffee cups, the crust of laughter over every conversation.
Nana’s arms, surprisingly strong, pulling me into a rib-crushing hug that left flour on my dress and lipstick on my cheek.
Those moments now feel like someone else’s story.
But after my father died, it all vanished.
I stopped going upstate. Aunt Maria’s voicemails went from weekly to monthly, and then whenever she remembers, I guess.
I think she mourned my father more than I did.
Or maybe she just couldn’t handle the silence he left behind.
As for my nana, the last time I saw her was at the funeral.
I sometimes tell myself I’ll visit her, but I never do.
Work and paying my mother’s bills have consumed my life.
“So, you don’t have any relationship with your mother’s side?” he probes.
“No, my mother made sure of that.” I pause, feeling the familiar knot in my chest whenever I think about this.
“I’ve only met one cousin, and I was maybe seven or eight.
When my mother visited her family, she would take the boys, and I would just go with my papa to see Nana.
” I shrug. “How about you? Are you close to your family? Besides Valkyrie and your mother?”
“Yes. My entire family is pretty tight-knit. Well, my mother’s side of the family.
My father’s side cut him off when he married my mother.
They felt like he was too good for her, and when she got pregnant with Valkyrie, they basically told him to choose between them or us.
He chose us, obviously,” he says. “It was hard on him, but he never once made us feel like we were a burden or that he regretted his choice.”
“That must have been difficult for your mother.”
“It was. She blamed herself for years, thinking she’d taken him away from his family. But my dad always told her that family isn’t just blood, it’s the people who choose to love and support you unconditionally.” He glances over at me with a soft smile. “That’s something I’ve always believed too.”
His words hit me harder than I expected them to. The idea of being chosen, of someone deciding you’re worth fighting for… it’s foreign to me. My mother made it clear early on that I was more of an obligation than a choice.
“You’re so lucky,” I whisper.
Vulcan reaches out to cup my cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.”
I lean into his touch, drawing comfort from his warmth.
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. And now I’m starting a new life with you.
” If I tell him the truth—how desperate I am, how much I want this to be real—will I jinx it?
There’s a superstition in my bones, passed down from generations of women who warned that joy vanishes if you stare at it too long.
So, I hide my longing and ignore the tight ache in my chest.
But my mind can’t leave it alone. I keep replaying the last few weeks.
I wonder when I started living as if there were no exit strategy.
Vulcan makes everything so easy. The little rituals, like the way he always wakes before me to grind coffee.
Or when he’s tired, he’ll flop onto the couch with his head in my lap and close his eyes and listen to me ramble on about my day.
Even his affection feels like he’s spent his whole life learning the choreography of gentleness just for me.
And me? I eat it up. I let him hand me towels still warm from the dryer, let him tuck my hair behind my ear when I’m reading, let him carry my bags and my burdens, bit by bit, until I hardly recognize the woman who I once was.
Each day, I fall deeper into my feelings, and each day, I tell myself not to.
Because this arrangement has an expiration date.
I’ve always known this, and yet every heartbeat betrays me.
It swears allegiance to this man, and it dreams of a future with Vulcan’s name scrawled across it in permanent ink.
I swallow hard, blinking back the hot pressure behind my eyes.
It’s ridiculous, how much hope hurts. Maybe that’s why I want to hoard every moment, even the silly ones.
He’s so good to me. So unreasonably kind and gentle and stubbornly present.
I want to believe that we could be together, in a way that lasts.
Gosh, why did he have to be so kind and perfect? He makes it impossible not to hope, and hope is the most reckless thing I’ve ever done. I shake my head, trying to dispel these dangerous thoughts. If I let myself fall any harder, I’m not sure I’ll survive the landing.
Vulcan gives me a kind of self-satisfied, lopsided grin.
He leans in, lowering his voice. “Well, since we are family now, it’s my duty as a responsible partner to teach you the ancient, sacred art of cooking a proper breakfast.” He gestures dramatically to the kitchen, as if unveiling an altar.
“You may never have learned the family recipes, but you will at least master the holy trinity of eggs, toast, and… whatever else we have in the fridge.”
“Just so you know,” I say, only half joking, “I once tried to fry an egg and nearly set my kitchen on fire.”
“Thankfully, I’m a fire captain.” He winks.
“Also, don’t beat yourself up that you don’t know how to cook.
You have other talents that make up for your culinary shortcomings, and after we eat, I’ll be happy to let you showcase them.
” He turns to gather ingredients from the kitchen.
“But for now, you need to save your energy.” He shoots me a heated look over his shoulder. “You’ll need it later.”