★

"I told you! That woman is a demon, did I not tell him?" Lita's aunt, Livina, exclaimed from the dinner table, shaking her head as Victor finished recounting the conversation with María.

"Basta, Livina," Abuela interjected, her voice sharp despite the exhaustion behind it. "Estoy cansada de esta conversación. ¿No delante de Lita, eh? Sigue siendo la madre de la niña." (Enough, Livina. I'm tired of this conversation. Not in front of Lita, eh? She's still the girl's mother.)

Lita sat quietly, dragging her fork through her food as the conversation swirled around her. The apartment was packed now. The quiet, hollow ache of the last few days had been replaced with the constant hum of voices and footsteps. Her family had flown in from Mexico, scraping together what little they had to be here—not because they knew Mateo, but because Victor needed them. Because they cared.

And yet, Lita felt like a stranger in her own home.

The rapid-fire Spanish bounced off the apartment walls, voices layering over each other, filling the air with an energy she should've found comforting. Instead, it felt like she was standing outside a house with all the windows shut, watching her own family from behind the glass.

"She didn't even come," Livina muttered, stabbing her food. "Su propio hijo—her own son, and she's on a damn honeymoon?"

"She was always like that," one of the older uncles said, shaking his head. "Desde que era niña, soñando con América, con la vida de las películas. Ni siquiera quería ser mexicana." (Ever since she was a child, dreaming of America, of that movie-star life. She didn't even want to be Mexican.)

"Ay, pero bien mexicana que se sentía cuando le convenía," (Oh, but she sure acted Mexican when it suited her.) another tía added with a scoff. "Until she had what she wanted, and then puf, se desapareció."

Lita's stomach tightened. They weren't wrong about María—her mother had always been obsessed with chasing a life bigger than the one she left behind in Puebla. But this wasn't just about María anymore. It was about her too.

"I can understand you, you know," Lita said suddenly, looking up from her plate.

Her tía Livina raised an eyebrow. "¿Sí?"

"Yes." Lita narrowed her eyes, her voice even.

Livina gave her a knowing smile, like she was humoring a child. "We didn't think you did, mija. You never visit. And your Spanish..." She made a wobbly motion with her hand, teasing but not kind.

Lita clenched her jaw. "My Spanish is fine."

Her abuela, sitting beside her, reached over and rubbed her arm. "Pero claro que sí, mi niña," (Of course it is, my girl.) she cooed, in that same tone adults use when lying about Santa Claus.

Lita set her fork down. Appetite gone.

The room smelled of frijoles charros—homey and warm—but the scent only twisted in her stomach. She'd imagined moments like this so many times growing up, hearing laughter and music and feeling part of something. But this didn't feel like that. This felt like showing up to a party she was invited to out of obligation.

"She looks just like María," one of the uncles murmured.

"Ay, sí... pero más seria," another added. "Más como Victor."  (Oh yes... but more serious. More like Victor.)

"No me gusta cómo se ve la niña. Está más flaca que la última vez."
(I don't like how the girl looks. She's skinnier than last time.)

Lita sighed. "I understand you," she repeated, louder this time.

Abuela just patted her hand again.

Victor chuckled beside her, shaking his head. "Mamá, déjala."
(Mom, leave her be.)

Lita sighed, louder this time. "I understand you," she repeated.

But Abuela wasn't done.
"She needs to eat. She needs to be around family more." Then, turning back to Lita, she said in slow, careful Spanish, "Mija, deberías visitarnos más. México también es tu casa."
(Mija, you should visit us more. Mexico is your home too.)

It was meant kindly—but it felt like a reminder that she didn't belong anywhere.

The worst part? They had come for her. For Mateo. For Victor. They'd made sacrifices. And still, Lita felt like a guest in her own grief.

She looked away from the kitchen table and toward the couch where several of her cousins were piled together—some channel surfing, others laughing loudly. A few of the girls whispered in each other's ears while glancing at her. Like she was a novelty. Or an intruder.

She stood up. Her chair scraped the floor with a loud screech, but no one looked. She left the room, walked down the short hallway, and slammed the door behind her.

Inside her bedroom, the silence hit like a wall. She let out a shaky breath.

She wished Mateo was here. Not even to talk. Just to sit beside her. To exist in the same chaos and not make her feel so damn alone.

Her eyes flicked to his bed—duvet tucked in neatly, pillows still arranged just how he liked them. All perfect, all untouched. Except for one thing.

The teddy bear.

It lay on her bed instead, fur worn and rugged, tousled from years of love. She sighed, dropping onto her mattress and grabbing it. Her fingers brushed over its black-glass eyes—cold and empty, yet somehow still comforting. Somehow still his.

A soft knock made her sit up straighter. The door creaked open.

Livina stepped inside and closed it gently behind her. "I saw you sneaking in here," she said, giving Lita a small smile. "You shouldn't be alone, mija. Not right now."

Lita swallowed thickly and pushed the bear aside. "I'm fine being alone."

Her aunt sighed and sat beside her. "You know, I only met Mateo one time. He was just a baby... But I remember thinking—this child? He's just as beautiful as his big sister." She nudged Lita's shoulder.

Lita's grip tightened around the teddy bear.

She didn't know how to respond. Compliments like that hurt now—like they belonged to a different timeline.

Livina exhaled, her voice gentler now. "I know it feels like nobody here gets it. But we do, mija. Losing someone—de sangre—it doesn't go away. But you don't have to do it alone."

Lita didn't look at her. "It doesn't feel like that," she said, so quietly it almost didn't register. "It feels like I don't belong here."

Livina was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded. "That's because we don't know you. And you don't know us. You grew up far away. And we... we stayed here."

She looked down at her hands before continuing. "But you're still family. And family shows up. Even when it hurts."

Lita met her eyes. "Then why didn't my mom show up?"

Livina's expression changed—something unreadable flickered in her face.

"Some people run from pain, mija," she said. "And some of us run toward it because we don't have a choice."

Lita gave a bitter laugh. "She always ran."

"And your father stayed."

That wasn't comforting. Not really. But it was true.

They sat in silence, the muffled sound of the TV and laughter leaking through the walls.

Livina reached out, brushing Lita's hair behind her ear the way she used to when she was little. "Come sit with us. Even if it's just for a little while."

Lita hesitated. Then, slowly, she nodded.

She placed Mateo's bear back on the pillow, smoothing its ears.

Maybe she still felt like an outsider. Maybe she didn't know where she fit.

But Mateo would've wanted her to try.