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Lita spent every hour of her day thinking of Mateo, of the little details that had shaped him. His curly black hair that was forever falling in his eyes, the warm brown eyes that saw everything with such innocence, and his chubby cheeks that made him look so endearing. He was pure, unfiltered joy—a light that, even in memory, lit up the hollow spaces left behind in her heart.

When he was born, Lita's mother had insisted that she be the first to hold him. She had said with a smile, "I want him to grow up just like you." It felt like a blessing, but Lita knew it was more complicated than that. Her mother had hoped he would be obedient, quiet, and as unwavering as Lita had been. But Mateo was always different—restless, playful, and endlessly curious. He was so full of life that no rules could contain him, and no quiet demeanor could stifle his loud laugh.

Five years later, they moved to New York. It was a place her mother had always spoken of with a strange mix of longing and idealism. She'd heard "No Hay Marcha en Nueva York" on the radio years ago, and the city had lodged itself in her heart ever since, a glittering dream in contrast to everything familiar. On the flight, Mateo, who had never known anything but their little corner of Mexico, cried most of the way. Their father tried to soothe him, but their mother's stern look quieted even the sound of his hiccupping sobs. Mateo grew silent, though he clung to Lita's arm, the only thing familiar in his new world.

Sometimes, Lita wondered if her mother ever thought about Mateo. Did she wonder how her youngest child would have grown up? Did she think about his laugh or the way he played with his toys, or how he'd asked endless questions that nobody else had the patience to answer? In her heart, Lita doubted it. It was as if he'd been only a shadow in their mother's mind—a piece of her left behind in Mexico, like all the other things she'd abandoned in search of a newer, shinier life.

Now, every day felt incomplete without him, every memory tinged with grief. Lita and her father had been doing everything they could to lay Mateo to rest, trying to find an option they could afford. Cremation was cheaper, but it felt wrong. Lita knew her father didn't want to part with Mateo that way. When that same kind doctor from the hospital—Mateo's regular doctor, who had grown unexpectedly attached to him over the years—offered to cover part of the expenses, Lita's father had broken down. It was a moment of relief and shame combined, and even though he tried to carry it with pride, there was a visible crack in him now, something Lita had never seen before. He was grateful, yes, but it was painful to accept help for something he felt he should have been able to give his son alone.

And so, life moved forward, but every minute seemed to drag painfully in Mateo's absence. She felt his loss everywhere—in the quiet of her mornings, in the emptiness of her walks home, in the silence that replaced his laughter. Her classmates, however, had begun to move on, the tragedy of it already fading into whispers and sideways glances.

"Lita, are you feeling alright?" Her English teacher's voice broke through her haze, pulling her back to the classroom. Lita looked up from her notebook, meeting her teacher's concerned gaze, only to see the faces of her classmates turned towards her, eyes wide with morbid curiosity. And there was Tory, her once-close "friend," smirking in that same careless, mocking way that Lita had once brushed off. Today, it cut deeper than usual.

"I'm fine," Lita replied through gritted teeth, her voice tight with a mixture of exhaustion and anger. She just wanted the stares to stop, for everyone to turn away and leave her alone.

Then, a gentle tap on her shoulder. She turned to see an unfamiliar boy, a classmate she barely knew, watching her with a strange glint in his eye. "Hey...is it true your brother just died?" His tone was quiet, almost casual, but something in his voice felt off, his curiosity too eager.

Lita felt her jaw tighten, a sharp, hot anger bubbling up inside her. She tried to ignore him, turning back to her notebook. But he persisted, leaning in as if he hadn't said anything wrong. "What happened, anyway?" he pressed. "Is it why you're, like, all sad and stuff?"

The words stung, biting through her carefully held silence. She could hear the subtle laughter from across the room, someone chuckling under their breath as the boy prodded further. "Come on, I'm just asking," he said with a smirk. "No need to be so touchy."

Before she could stop herself, her fist connected with his face, shoving him back in a sudden burst of anger. He stumbled, a look of shock flashing across his face, the laughter fading instantly as the room fell silent. Her classmates stared, a mix of surprise and judgment in their eyes.

Not waiting for anyone's reaction, Lita grabbed her bag and stormed out of the classroom, her footsteps echoing down the hallway. She didn't stop until she reached home, her hands shaking as she fumbled for her key, slamming the door shut behind her.

Inside her room, the floodgates opened. She collapsed onto her bed, burying her face in the worn, soft fabric of Mateo's favorite teddy bear, the one he'd clung to through every sickness, every night he felt scared or alone. She held it tightly, her shoulders shaking as she finally let herself feel the depth of her grief, the ache of his absence consuming her.

Hours later, as the moonlight crept through her window, she heard the front door open softly. Her father's quiet footsteps approached her room, his shift at the restaurant now done. Since Mateo's death, he'd moved to daytime hours—no longer a need to work late into the night. He paused in the doorway, his face worn and tired but softened with concern as he saw her lying there, eyes red and face damp.

He walked over and sat on the edge of her bed, reaching out to gently run his hand over her hair. "Your teacher called," he murmured, a sad, weary smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Seems we both had a rough day today."

For a while, they sat in silence, letting the weight of everything they'd been through hang between them. After a long pause, her father broke the silence, his voice thick with emotion. "You know...he used to do that little pout of his when he didn't get his way," he chuckled softly, his eyes misting over. "Dios, he could make you feel guilty for saying no, even for just a cookie."

Lita laughed through her tears, remembering the way Mateo would puff out his cheeks and stomp his little feet, his chubby face red with determination. "Yeah," she said, smiling faintly. "And how he'd crawl into bed with me, pretending he'd had a nightmare just so he wouldn't have to sleep alone."

They shared memories late into the night, talking about Mateo's quirks, his favorite movies,the way he used to kick around his soccer ball everywhere before the doctors told him he had to stop. For the first time in weeks, they laughed together, and it was bittersweet—a balm for their hearts and a reminder of what they'd lost.

Eventually, Lita leaned into her father's shoulder, letting the familiar comfort of his presence soothe her. And in that quiet moment, as they sat together in the dark, holding onto each other, she allowed herself to feel, just for a moment, that it was okay to find a small sense of peace amidst the pain.