Page 67 of Miguel

I loved this city, even though I wasn’t from here. I loved how calm it was, how safe it made me feel compared to other states.

The colors of the streets were vivid, decorated in swaths of our culture, from the swaying papel picado strung high on strings to the lanterns and the brand new sign with our city name in the middle of the park. It had been handcrafted by local artisans, carved from a thick brown wood, engraved with Tlaxcalteca culture and tiny details of animals and alebrijes. It was so different from other Mexican state signs, and several people stopped to take pictures next to it.

“You aren’t from here, are you?” Miguel asked.

Zeke was between us, his little hands grasping ours and swinging as we walked. He took in the sights with wide, curious eyes.

“How could you tell?” I joked.

“It’s in the eyes. I grew up here, and everything always looks the same to me. Even when they redecorate. You’re looking at it like you’re seeing it for the first time.”

“I’m from Oaxaca.” I smiled at him. “I came here to study because I liked the university here more than at home. After doing my social service, I realized I wanted to stay here permanently and find work.”

We passed by a father and children group singing and playing instruments for spare change.

“Do you miss home?”

There seemed to be a deeper meaning behind his question, though I couldn’t quite interpret it. “I miss my family,” I confessed. “My mamá and papá, my hermanos. But I like living here. I don’t think I’d ever move back.”

“How many hermanos do you have?”

“Five. I’m the second oldest. My older brother lives back at home with my siblings, parents, and his own family. The youngest are still studying at uni.”

It was traditional in our culture for children to live with their families, sometimes even after they were married and had children of their own. I was the black sheep. As one of the oldest, I was supposed to have stayed at home with my family until I married and left to live with a husband and his family or found our own place. Instead, I’d gone off to study and moved to a different state far away from them.

I’d probably broken my mother’s heart.

“What about you?” I asked, not wanting to open up more about that side of my life. I loved my family. I loved talking about them. But all it would do was make me miss them, and I didn’t want to bring the mood down. “How many siblings do you have? Aside from all your club hermanos, of course.”

Miguel chuckled as we strolled along the cobblestone streets towards the ice cream shop. There was a Michoacana on every corner at work, selling paletas, ice cream, and nieves in all flavors.

“It’s just me and Cami. Our dad died when we were young and our mom never remarried. She died a few years ago.”

My heart clenched. It didn’t matter how out of sorts I was with my parents because of my decisions, I couldn’t imagine losing them.

“Miguel, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it, nena. Like you said, I have my club hermanos, and Cami acts like my mom already.”

We chuckled right as we made it to the ice cream shop. The big pink and white logo with the little doll seemed to wave at us from the wall. As the shop was tiny, it didn’t cater to actually going inside and sitting down, so Miguel left Zeke with me and went in to order after asking me what I wanted.

He came back, hands full of two ice cream cones and one nieve de limón with chamoy and tajin for me. We walked over to the park, sitting on a free bench to watch the pigeons pluck at the ground as we ate.

Zeke dug into his ice cream cone with gusto, making appreciative humming noises and licking the melting vanilla from his fingers.

Miguel sighed. “Are kids always so damn dirty?”

I laughed at the horror in his voice. “Pretty much. Welcome to parenthood.”

There was a beat of silence and I noticed Miguel watching his son intently. Seeing them together like this only drove home how alike they both seemed. Quiet. Intense.

“I can’t believe it’s only been a short while since he was dropped off at the compound,” Miguel murmured finally, his eyes shifting up to meet mine. In them, there was a painful sincerity. “I have no idea what I’m doing half the time. I’m not even sure if I’m doing right by him.”

I reached between Zeke to grab Miguel’s hand. Our palms touched, sticky with ice cream, and I could feel the beat of his pulse at his wrist.

“You’re doing the best you can,” I assured him.

“You didn’t seem to think so when we first met.”

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