Page 2 of Shadows of the Past
The silence hits me first when I push open the front door.Something iswrong. Our house is never quiet. Amalia has discovered that she likes to talk…a lot… about everything she learned in school, and Lupe's gymnastic routines ensure our house doesn't understand the concept of "indoor volume."
Hushed voices drift from the kitchen, my mother's whispered words freezing me in place.
"Pedro, por el amor de Dios, don't you think about us at all?"
I press myself against the wall, pulse quickening at the panic threading through her words.
"How much money, Pedro?"
"Thirty thousand American dollars."
"CUÁNTO?" Mom's voice cracks like thunder, forcing my hand over my mouth to trap the gasp building in my throat.
Even I know we don't have that kind of money. I'd spent all summer washing dishes at a beach café just to buy a phone.
"Rosa, I'll get it." Dad's voice drops, heavy with regret. I can picture him now—shoulders slumped, eyes glistening, his hand covering hers.
"We can't stay here, Pedro. They'll come for us." The terror in Mom's whisper sends ice through my veins.
Who the hell did he borrow that much money from?
"Rosa, where would we go? We have the girls to think about."
"My cousin in Mexico City could take us in until we figure something out. Pedro, they're monstruos." The word 'monsters' hangs in the air, chilling the sweat on my skin.
"I'll get the money."
Mom says nothing, but her silence speaks volumes, disagreement written in every unspoken word.
I should barge in and tell them we should go to Uncle Felipe instead. I should hug Mom more often. I should beg Dad to stop borrowing money we don't have. I should tell my sisters they're the brightest stars in my universe.
Two days later, our life spiraled straight into hell.
Chapter 3
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Julia
Sleep refuses to come after overhearing Mom and Dad's conversation. I toss and turn all night, my mind racing with ways to help, but that kind of money doesn't materialize overnight.
Por Dios, not even in a year.
As a couple of days pass without Mom mentioning it again, I try burying the memory. Maybe Dad worked something out—payment plans or some work arrangement with whomever he owes.
After dinner, Mom hurries my sisters upstairs for bath time, leaving Dad and me alone in the kitchen. The twelve-year age gap between me and my six-year-old twin sisters comes with one advantage: adult conversations happen out of their earshot.
I reach across the table, my hand covering his. "You okay, Papá?"
My father's weathered hands contrast with his usual pressed shirt and beige pants. My sisters are his miniature copies—same greenish-brown eyes, same mischievous smile and wrinkle of their nose when they don’t like something. I, however, carry my mother's features: glossy black waves, fuller lips than I'd prefer,olive skin, and a lean frame. Mom never had the curves typically associated with Latina women, always tall and model thin.
"Ahora sí," he answers, giving me the same tender look he reserves for when all "his girls" are together.
Though I don't share his appearance, our bond runs deeper than the one he shares with my sisters, and I know when he’s trying to hide something from me.
"Tell me how I can help," I whisper, ears alert for Mom's footsteps.
Concern flashes across his face, realization dawning that I overheard them.
