In the city's hustle, Lily's tale unfolds-a rift with her parents sends her seeking solace in a countryside haven. There, she meets Theo, a guide to this whole new world that she's unfamiliar with. Wandering through golden fields, exploring wind-whi...
I had taken to using Twitter as a makeshift journal after the incident that led to the involuntary burning of my diaries. My life, unlike the captivating books I've started to delve into this summer, seems devoid of interesting twists. Chick-lit novels, a recent addition to my reading list, have shown me a different perspective—a world that revolves around love and romance.
Throughout my life, my parents have ingrained in me the idea that love strikes unexpectedly, akin to a storm. It comes when one least expects it, with impeccable timing. However, I can't help but question the certainty that love will eventually find everyone. What if someone doesn't desire it? What if I can live without it? The seemingly perfect union of my parents doesn't convince me that it's a path I want to tread.
Chick-lit provides an alternative narrative. Women in these stories don't need anyone to succeed; romance is merely a subplot. The choice to embrace or reject love rests in our hands.
"Lily."
I lowered my cell phone upon hearing Grandma's voice from the doorframe. "Ah, this room. This used to be mine when I was your age, and then it was your mother's," she reminisced as she strolled in, carefully examining every detail.
"The room's lovely, Grandma," I acknowledged, sitting up straight.
Grandma joined me on the bed, her presence making the cushion sink slightly. I sensed a serious conversation approaching. We hadn't discussed why I was being punished or why I was exiled from my own home as if I weren't their child.
Her gaze shifted to me. "Your mom called to ask if we arrived safely. You didn't call her earlier?" Her voice maintained its mellowness and sweetness, always gentle and understanding, in stark contrast to my other grandmother.
"I... I forgot. I get really lost exploring the whole place," I responded, attempting to sound truthful, avoiding the fact that I felt discarded by my family.
She reached for both of my hands. "They love you and are genuinely worried about you. I may not know what happened, but I'm glad I get to be here with you, my sweetest girl."
"I know. Me too."
I stared at our clasped hands, unaccustomed to these tender moments with my family. That's how my parents raised me, expressing love through expectations of greatness. While I knew they loved me, the absence of the words "I love you" left me pondering. "You'll do great" served as a substitute, a belief in my potential. Perhaps that too was a form of love.
"Oh my! This is you, hija," Grandma exclaimed, lifting the painting that Theo had made of me. "Theo did this? That boy is full of surprises," she remarked, studying the details with keen interest.
Reflexively, my gaze shifted to the balcony where I last saw him. "Who's that boy, Grandma? Is he Raoul's son? He seems like he's been living in this house for a long time," I inquired, his face momentarily flashing before my eyes. His smiling face, leaning beside the Casa de Hermosa lettering, lingered in my imagination.
My brows furrowed in confusion, halting my thoughts about him. I scolded myself for dwelling on someone I had just met.
"He hasn't introduced himself to you yet? Ah, he's not Raoul's son but his cousin. After Raphael died, Raoul kindly took the baby under his care since he didn't have any family. It wasn't a problem," Grandma explained, placing the painting back down while still admiring it. "Raphael was an amazing painter like his Tio Ramuel. I remember as a child, watching Tio Ramuel paint. His works always depicted the beautiful details of Bora La Costa, but my favorite pieces were the oil paintings of my older sister, Elena. She was very beautiful and elegant in his paintings, as well as in real life. Raphael never failed to capture her beauty."
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I tried to recall if I had any memories of Elena. "I forgot the face of Abuela Elena. In what country is she residing, Grandma? Why doesn't she join us for holiday celebrations like Abuela Katherine?"
Grandma's reaction left me hesitant about discussing Abuela Elena. I had heard about Abuela Katherine and Grandma being called Tres Marias by my mom and her cousin, but I always forgot who the third Maria was. She never seemed to show up, and I never had the chance to ask about her until now.
Grandma took a deep breath, smiling as she sank into memories of her sister. "She's the most angelic face among us. We were called Tres Marias of the town since our mom is Maria, and we're all her little Marias. They always looked at us wherever we went, but Elena... everyone fell for Elena. Most people would gaze at Elena, not me or Katherine. She was reserved and enigmatic, never opening her heart to anyone or acknowledging people's sugar-coated words. Elena would always carry a book to avoid the constant attention," she chuckled between words, lost in her reminiscences.
"What did she look like, Grandma? And where is she now? Did I perhaps meet her as a child? I don't recall meeting her," I asked, confusion clouding my thoughts.
Grandma smiled at me. "She is in heaven now. Elena died in her teenage years. We were about to celebrate her 20th birthday, but..." Her words trailed off, tears forming in her eyes.
Guilt overwhelmed me for bringing up Abuela Elena. I hugged Grandma, apologizing, "I'm so sorry for asking, Grandma. I didn't know that she... I wish I had met her."
Her hands moved to pat my head. "Don't worry, she's in a happy place with someone she loves. If you want to know her face, look in the mirror, and you'll see. You resemble every detail of her face, like you're straight out of her womb," she leaned back and cupped my face with both hands. "You're as beautiful as her and have a golden heart too, my angel."
I offered a slight smile at Grandma, unsure how to respond. I knew I wasn't ugly, but being considered the prettiest surprised me. I didn't mind either way. What Grandma didn't know was that I wasn't an angel, and my heart wasn't close to being golden.
I despised those with golden hearts, suspecting that many of them harbored hidden secrets.
