34. Julieta
Chapter thirty-four
Julieta
I walk into my parents’ house without knocking as usual, but it feels strange today. It feels nerve wracking. Who knows what awaits me past the door?
I know my mother’s upset with me, but I know, or maybe I hope, I’m still welcome here.
“Hola ma,” I say, tentatively.
“Hola.” She’s sitting at the table sipping mate.
I pull out a chair, slowly taking a seat next to her. This is going to be a hard, but necessary, talk.
There's a box of pastries in the middle of the table from Mariana’s, and I pick out a croissant. It gives me something to do with my hands.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about what I was doing,” I start, looking down at the pastry.
She sips her mate, then pours more water from the thermos, avoiding any eye contact with me.
I breathe in deep, expel everything, and then it hits me: this is an exhausting way to live. This is walking on eggshells, passive aggressive, too much pressure and it’s exhausting . Maybe this is why I’m so tired.
“You can’t wish a better life for us and then resent us for it afterward,” I come out and say. “You can’t give us a guilt trip about everything that we do. Yes, we have been afforded so many privileges by moving here and being raised here. You wanted better for us, and you got it. We don’t forget where we came from, and we don’t want to. But we can also acknowledge where we are—in this country, and in this generation that allows us much more freedom than you grew up with. I’m sorry your childhood was hard, and I thank you for the life you gave us.”
“I don’t need a thank you.”
“But it’s still nice to hear, isn’t it? You gave us everything we could ever need, but we're adults now. I am an adult now. And I will make choices you may not like.”
“I know that,” she says with a defeated sigh. “Didn’t hurt to try, though.”
Except it did hurt.
She looks at me, across the table from her. This may be the most intimidating staring contest I’ve ever been a part of.
“I remember when she bought those shoes,” she says, reminiscing. “She always thought I would follow in her footsteps, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want it. I chose another life for myself—one with your father. And with you and Dario. And this country. I don’t regret it one bit, but sometimes I wish things had been different. It was hard. It was hard for her, too, I know that.”
“I’m sorry you feel like she chose dance over family.”
She shakes her head as she tells me, “Don’t listen to me.”
“Your feelings are valid, ma.”
“I was angry with her as a child, but I know she loved us. We’re the ones that moved away. Maybe we chose this country over her.” Her eyes are wet with tears, I notice. “Thirty years ago, imagine that. I wanted so much more for the both of you, but could be that I wanted all the time away from her to have been worth it, too.”
When we hit a wall with our immigration troubles, falling into traps with scammy lawyers, getting overwhelmed with all the paperwork, my mother felt stuck. Stuck between two places: the country she’d come to build a new life, and the country of her birth. And tied up in the legalities of everything, she didn’t really belong to either one, stuck in a heartbreaking limbo. She didn't have a place to call home.
My mother was made to be strong. She was the oldest, too; she fell into that role of being a caretaker for everyone. She was set in survival mode from the beginning and learned to never let anything make her flinch. She jumped into this new adventure, providing for her family, learning a new language, raising her children in a new world. My parents even picked up extra jobs to help pay for our college. They did it all without complaint, without second thought.
But in turn, she raised her daughter to be soft. To not have to deal with the hardships she did. To not have to deal with the roughness of life. To, unfortunately, unknowingly, make her afraid.
“You were so brave,” I say in admiration.
“I think there’s bravery in what you did, too.”
I shake my head. “Not like you.”
She places her hand over mine, squeezing it lightly.
“I miss her,” I admit.
“Yo también. But seeing you dance in that video was … magic.” She smiles softly when she says this, something that looks gentle and kind. “It made me miss her even more, but in a good way. Like she’s still here, and she’s with you, with us. Like she’s cheering you on. She knew what she was doing. She always did.”
This feels like support and approval. And maybe I’ll never be able to entirely break free from my desire to make my parents proud. But maybe I can reframe what that looks like for me.
“I will always love you. I will always acknowledge everything you did for us. But if you wanted a better life for us, if you want a successful life for me, it starts with letting me make my own decisions free of judgement and guilt. And it starts with letting me be happy. And I’m not happy at my job, ma. I’m really not. This can’t be the life you wished for me.”
“You're right,” she says with a nod.
I rear back in surprise at her response, blinking slowly as I repeat the words in my head. “I’m not going to run off and start competing all over the world,” I tell her. “I’m just dancing. I’m dancing socially and I’m having fun and,” I pause, “I met someone.” Where that stands right now, who knows. But it’s out there at least.
Her eyebrow lifts, but there’s that smile again. “Bueno,” she says. And then, “Te quiero muchísimo, Julieta.”
And somehow, it was like all I wanted to hear.
***
My nerves have mostly subsided by the time I park my car, but as I walk into the office building, they ramp up again. If I don’t fight it hard enough, I could let the nerves win. I could change my mind and not do this and walk out just as disappointed in myself as I’ve been all week.
But I challenge myself to do the hard thing today. It might feel like an impulse, the kind of decision I’d learned to make within the past couple of months, the one that brought me so many good things, but this one has been secretly brewing for months.
“Good morning, Barbara. Can we talk?”
She looks up at me from her desk. “Sure.”
I close the door behind me, the click reverberating throughout these walls. I turn to face her, back straightened, steady, with a deep breath in.
“I am officially handing in my two weeks’ notice.”
When I leave her office, I hope to feel lighter, but I’m mostly just shaky. The guilt is still a companion, but I’m learning to give it less of my time.
I don’t have another job lined up, which is both terrifying and ridiculously unlike me, but who’s to say what’s unlike me any more anyway?
I walk past Larissa at her desk and knock on her door briefly. “Hey, can we talk in my office for a moment?”
She looks a bit concerned, but stands and follows. “Of course.”
Once she’s in my office, door closed, I break the news to her, too.
“I put in my notice.”
Her jaw goes slack as she stares.
“I just wanted you to hear it from me first.”
“Congratulations.” She sounds impressed.
“What?” I ask, perplexed.
“You’re getting out.” Now she sounds almost wistful.
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
“I want out, too,” she states.
“Larissa.” I put my hand up. “I’m not trying to piss off Barbara any more than I already have.”
“What did she say?” she asks.
“Nothing, really. She was cordial about it. She thanked me for my time here. I’ll have an exit interview soon.”
“Alright.” She nods. And then walks out of my office, leaving me confused.
When she comes back some time later, she proudly declares, “I’m leaving, too.”
“Oh God, no.”
“Yes,” she says adamantly. “And I’ll go where you go, if that’s okay. I will work with you and do my best, Julie.”
Larissa has been a support in this office from the start, and I feel like an asshole for not giving her any more of my companionship than was necessary. These past months were a slow start to making amends, and maybe it can continue.
I throw my hands out in resignation. “How about we go celebrate tonight then? Drinks on me.”
She gasps. “Absolutely.”
Larissa and I leave work early enough for once and meet at the restaurant shortly after.
“Oh, The Ivy,” she says. “This place is fun.”
“My cousin works here. I come here sometimes,” I explain, and then I realize I sound too indifferent when in fact, “I like it here, too.”
The bar is busy for happy hour, and T and Gavin are working together again.
“Hey, what are you doing here on a weekday?” Delfina is here, too. We find unoccupied stools next to her and squeeze in.
“This is Larissa, my paralegal,” I say to the group, and she waves. “These are my cousins Agostina and Delfina.”
Manny walks by and kisses my cheek in greeting. And then, because it’s as a good a time as any, I blurt out, “We just quit.”
The four of them stare at me, speechless.
“And so, we would love some drinks.”
They don’t move.
“Larissa, what would you like?” I ask.
“Oh!” She sits up straight. “Well, maybe just a glass of red?”
“Great. A glass of red. And I’ll do my usual.”
“I’m sorry. Did you say you quit?” T asks, wide eyed.
“Yes. Mmhmm. We did.” It shockingly doesn’t feel as nerve wracking to tell them this. Well, it may be a little stressful, but not like I imagined.
“Like, your job ?” Delfi asks, stunned.
“Yes, our terrible job!” Larissa chimes in with a joyous voice.
Suddenly T, Manny, and Delfi break out in celebration, dancing and shrieking in place, shouting out all sorts of well-wishes and congratulations, while Gavin gives me a high-five.
“Julieta. I am so proud of you,” T says with a big smile on her face.
“One step at a time,” I sigh.
“Does the next step involve dancing?” Manny boldly asks.
“Seriously?” I look at T. “Does everybody in here know?”
“There’s no guilt like Hispanic mom guilt,” Manny mutters, shaking his head.
“That’s the truth,” T agrees.
Gavin shrugs. “I can’t relate.”
“Nobody asked you,” she retorts, with a scowl.
“This is so great, Julie,” Delfi adds, squeezing my arm.
But the question lingering is the one I’ve been thinking about, too. I clear my throat, then admit, “I didn’t cancel the plane tickets.”
Delfi might have gasped, but I’m focused on Agostina in front of me. She’s listening intently to what I’m saying, probably already planning what her next move will be.
“When do you leave?” she asks.
“Well, it would have been tomorrow at five.”
“And when’s the competition?”
“Friday night,” I answer.
She whips her phone out, typing away.
Manny chimes in, “I’ll see if Alexis can take your Friday night.”
“I’ll take your bar shift,” Gavin adds.
“Wait. What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m so in,” Delfi says, practically vibrating from the excitement.
“What?” I look around, confused. There’s a whirlwind of plans being made around me, and I feel like the eye of the hurricane, surprisingly calm, the chaos swirling around me.
“We’re going,” T answers quickly. “Larissa, you want in?”
I start to protest, like I’ve even got it in me anymore, but T stops me.
“No . No. I don’t want to hear a thing from you. We are going. We’re going to support you because that’s how this works and that’s what you need.” She lifts her phone. “Besides, I got a great deal, so yeah, we’re going.”
I soften at that, but reality quickly hits. “Wait a second. I haven’t even talked to Logan yet. He could very well tell me to fuck off. Or he could have found my replacement by now.”
“So, go talk to him,” she says casually, like we didn’t just make some flight plans involving him without him.
“Now?” I ask, my voice high-pitched.
Trevor appears from the kitchen, dropping off plates of food, and when he notices all of us, he comes to say hi.
I almost miss Larissa’s double-take, but I don’t miss the smile and the soft-spoken “Hi.”
“I’ll give you his number later,” T winks. “Julie, get your head out of your ass and go talk to him.”
“No better time than the present.” Manny shrugs.
“You can do this, Julie,” Larissa adds, cheering me on.
“Go get my brother, I guess,” Gavin says with a smirk.
And with that, a bar full of friends new and old, my bold, loving cousins, and a newfound sense of self, I grab my bag and run out to my car, headed straight to Logan.
I think grief pushes on the accelerator. Makes you move quicker. Makes you realize that life is short, that it is fragile, and what are you even doing if you’re not enjoying it?
Grief pushes on that accelerator. But, I very quickly realize, so does love.