Together, you became a unit. If one of you had a sandwich, all five ate. If one got bullied, all five stood together. If one won an award, all five clapped like the ceiling might fall. You were not just siblings. You were evidence that your mother’s suffering had not been wasted.
Your father became a ghost story. You knew his name. You knew he had left. You knew he had stolen the formula money. But your mother never let hatred become the foundation of your home.
“Don’t let him make your hearts ugly,” she said one night when Daniel asked if Ramon was dead.
“Is he?” Daniel asked.
Maria looked at the window for a long moment. “No. But some people are alive and still absent.”
“Do you hate him?” Grace asked.
Your mother’s eyes filled with something complicated. “No,” she said. “But I stopped waiting for him.”
That was the day you learned there was a difference.
