There’s rustling over the phone. Tía’s voice comes through closer and harder. “How could this happen? Marisa going to a party at two in the morning?” Mom’s evidently handed the phone over to Tía, who’s now questioning me.
I grope for words. Tía is ruthless in an interrogation, and I don’t understand why I’m the subject. Nor do I have the emotional energy to muster either patience or resistance. I’m exhausted. “I don’t know, Tía,” I say honestly. “I wasn’t there.”
“Exactly,” Tía replies. I understand a moment late I’ve given her what she wanted. “Do you think this would’ve happened if you’d been home, Juni? Do you think your sister could’ve snuck out if you were here?” They’re questions, but really they’re points driven in with practiced precision.
Defensiveness gets the better of me. “You’re being ridiculous,” I reply sharply. It’s true, though. Had I been home, Marisa wouldn’t have been able to sneak out. Everyone knows I’m a light sleeper. But that’s not the point. “You can’t make this my fault. Marisa chose to sneak out. Marisa chose to get drunk. She’s the one you should be lecturing.”
“She’ll have her turn, don’t you worry,” Tía says. “Right now is your turn.” I roll my eyes, grateful she can’t see me. “We have to look after each other.” Her tone is softer now, heavier.
It pulls me to the cold tile of the bathroom floor. I put my back up to the door, tucking my knees to my chest.
“Marisa needed you to look after her tonight,” she continues. “Who will look after you when you are far away? Who will you call? You need your family, Juniper.” The bite is gone from her words, replaced entirely by the gentle persuasiveness of a person who believes wholly in what she is saying.
“I have to find myself,” I plead, feeling the enormous inertia of this conversation, the weight of having fought this exact fight with Tía tens, even hundreds of times before. Tears well in my eyes, partly because it’s nearly three in the morning and I’m curled on the floor of a hotel bathroom, and partly because I know how this conversation will end. For all Tía preaches about family, she never even tries to be the great-aunt I need. To encourage and respect my choices and the life I want. The futility and the loneliness overwhelm me.
“I know who you are,” Tía tells me. “You’re Marisa’s older sister. You’re the girl who did her homework in the restaurant while her father cooked enchiladas, the girl who taught her brothers long division when they needed help in school. The girl who cut out paper angels to decorate her abuela’s room after she was gone. You’re a Ramírez. You don’t need to find yourself because you’re not lost, ni?a. You can never be lost if you have your home and your family.”
The tears in my eyes burn, fury flushing into my cheeks. “You know, I used to wonder why my dad moved to New York. Why he married a woman none of you had ever met. Why he didn’t come home for eight years,” I say, fuming. “Now I understand. The only way to have even the smallest stretch of freedom from this family is to leave completely. Don’t make me do it too.”
Icy stillness settles over the line. I know I’ve said outright what I’ve only hinted and half expressed for months. “Do you need to be reminded of what happened the second time your father tried to leave his family?”
The question knocks the wind out of me. It’s cruel of Tía to use those memories like weapons, to turn them on me. It’s unnecessary—my parents and I never need reminding of this guilt.
My parents had moved our family to Springfield to help run the restaurant while Abuela had heart problems. We’d been living there for six months when my dad found permanent help to take over, lightening the load for Tía and Abuela and giving my parents the chance to move back to New York. When they brought Tía and Abuela together to tell them, they weren’t expecting their stunned indignation. They’d thought we’d moved to Springfield for good. It turned into a huge fight, and the stress pushed Abuela’s heart too