★

The days that followed were long and loud, Lita's only sense of peace became that bedroom—a place to hide. She didn't care that they all knew she would go there to get away from them, from the noise. It didn't bother her. Let them know. Let them think and gossip.

Lita just wanted to be alone.

Livina continued to try to include her, to show Lita they cared, but her efforts bounced off a wall Lita didn't know how to lower.

It was her father who finally knocked.

Not like the others did, not with the half-guilt of someone intruding, but with the kind of knock that said: If you're in there, I'm still out here. I'm not going anywhere.

He didn't wait for a reply. He stepped in, closing the door quietly behind him.

Lita was sitting on the floor beside Mateo's bed, her back against the frame, hugging the bear to her chest. She didn't look up.

Victor sat down slowly on the edge of her bed, letting the silence settle between them.

"You know," he said after a while, his voice low, "your aunt made chilaquiles this morning. With too much salsa, like always."

Lita didn't respond.

He rubbed his hands over his knees, exhaling. "I know you're tired. Of the noise. Of everyone being in your space. I'm tired too."

Lita glanced up then. Her dad looked smaller lately. Grayer.

"I just don't want to be around them," she said softly.

"I know," he nodded. "They're here for us, but that doesn't mean it's easy."

Another pause.

"You've been in here a lot."

Lita shrugged. "It's quiet."

Victor looked down at the floor, then back at her. "I miss him too, mija."

That was all it took. Her throat tightened. She blinked quickly.

Victor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I keep thinking I'm going to hear his laugh. That little laugh he did when he knew he was being too loud."

Lita smiled a little through the ache in her chest.

"I didn't know it would feel like this," she admitted.

"No one does," he said, his voice nearly breaking. "But I don't want to lose you too. Not while I still have you."

That made her look up sharply.

"I'm right here," she said.

Victor nodded, reaching over and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Then let me be here with you too. Even in the quiet."

That night, the house settled into a restless kind of quiet. After dinner and a few lingering conversations, everyone slowly trickled off to the cramped sleeping arrangements. The old floorboards creaked with every step, and the hum of the TV now played low in the background—someone must've left it on.

Lita stayed in her room longer than usual, curled up on her bed with Mateo's teddy bear tucked beneath her chin, listening to the distant chatter and the way it faded into tired silence. It wasn't long before she felt the pull of sleep take her.

But later, hours maybe, a sudden need to use the bathroom stirred her awake.

She rubbed her eyes, tiptoeing toward the hallway, careful not to step on any shoes or knock into the folding chairs stacked just outside the door. The hallway light was off, but a faint glow leaked from the living room, along with voices—soft and tense.

Lita paused near the kitchen, the bathroom forgotten.

"—but there's a bed in there, no?" one of her uncles whispered. She couldn't tell which one.

"It's not for us," came Victor's tired reply. "That was Mateo's bed."

A beat of silence.

"I just thought—she has the room to herself."

"She lost her brother," Victor said, his voice low and careful but unmistakably firm. "I'm not making her share his bed with anyone. That's not right."

Lita's throat tightened.

"She barely speaks to us," another voice muttered. "You'd think she'd want company."

"She speaks when she's ready," Victor said. "And this is her house, too. You're our guests. One week, maybe two—we'll figure it out."

The conversation ended soon after that, quiet murmurs trailing off into nothing.

Lita stood there for a few more seconds before quietly backing away and returning to her room.

She climbed back into bed, pulling the teddy bear against her chest. She knew her dad had always loved her—but something about hearing him defend her like that, in the quiet, when he didn't know she was listening...

It stayed with her.

Even as sleep crept back in.

★

The kitchen had become the unofficial headquarters of the household. Women moved in and out like a choreographed dance, chopping vegetables, yelling across the room, scolding children, adjusting spices, gossiping in fast, clipped Spanish. Lita kept herself scarce most of the time, retreating to her bedroom or helping quietly with the dishes when asked, then slipping away again.

But that afternoon, while making the mistake of looking for something to snack on, she got caught.

Her older cousins were seated at the long dining table, one leg tucked up on a chair, one scrolling her phone, the others with iced coffee cups sweating on the table. They looked like versions of each other—long nails, curled hair, perfectly arched brows, and a practiced blend of effortless cool and subtle judgment.

"¡Mira quién salió de la cueva!" (Look who came out of the cave) one of them said, smirking. Lita couldn't tell which one—it all blurred together in the worst way.

She didn't respond. Just opened a cabinet quietly, looking for crackers or anything to keep her hands busy.

"¿No vas a saludar?" (You're not going to say hi?) the same voice called again, but more pointed now.

Lita turned, giving a polite half-smile. "Hi," she said, her voice soft.

"You're so American now," said one, her tone light but edged. "Too quiet. Too polite."

"I'm just tired," Lita said, grabbing a pack of cookies and starting to turn away.

"¿Tired de qué?" (Tired from what?) one cousin asked with a laugh. "Si no haces nada." (You don't even do anything.)

Lita froze, her hand tightening around the plastic wrapper. She didn't say anything.

"You don't come to Mexico," said the one with the gold hoops and blue acrylics, tapping her phone lazily against her palm. "You never visit. You don't even post about your family. Only your little friends allá." (over there.)

Another cousin chimed in with a tilt of her head, "You don't even speak Spanish well anymore. You just understand it."

"I understand it fine," Lita said through clenched teeth.

"Yeah, but understanding isn't the same as living in it. You live in English. That's why you're always quiet when we're around."

It wasn't said cruelly, not outright. But it cut deep in a way Lita couldn't explain. That same old sting of never being enough. Not Mexican enough for them. Not American enough for everyone else.

"You talk like you grew up somewhere far away," another cousin said, with a little shrug. "But you didn't. You just forgot."

Lita finally looked up at them all. "I didn't forget," she said quietly. "I was just busy surviving."

The words slipped out before she could think twice. There was a beat of silence after that, the kind that shifts the mood even when no one's willing to name why.

"Well," one of them muttered, a little awkwardly, "you could at least try to talk to us. It wouldn't kill you to hang out with your family."

"You're all strangers," Lita said. Her voice didn't rise, but the honesty in it did something worse—it landed. "You act like you know me, like I owe you something because we share blood, but you don't know anything about me. Not really."

Her cousin raised her eyebrows, shifting in her seat. "Then tell us."

Lita opened her mouth, then closed it. What was she supposed to say? That her mother disappeared into the fantasy of a better life and never came back? That her little brother had died and she hadn't told a single person outside this house? That she was barely holding it together?

Instead, she shook her head. "Forget it," she said, stepping away from the table.

She walked toward the hallway slowly, feeling their eyes trail her back like heat.

"She's not like us," she heard one of them say, soft but not soft enough.

And another: "It's because of the mom. She raised her like a gringa."

Lita didn't turn around.

She just kept walking, slipping out through the side door where no one would see her. The air outside was cold, biting at her skin, but she welcomed it. At least the cold didn't talk.