ISABELLA
3 YEARS AGO
Roman: 19 years old – Isabella: 17 years old.
Today is always the hardest.
It’s the time of year when I remember the life that I had, or more accurately, the life I could have had. Not because I think I deserve it, or that it’s the path I should be on, but because it doesn’t matter how hard I try, the hole in my heart will never be filled.
That’s not to say my heart isn’t stuffed to the brim. It’ll simply never be whole. There will forever be cracks, and shards have gone missing.
One of the cracks—the one glued back together—came when I was born, and my father decided he wouldn’t be there.
He also decided he wouldn’t be there on my first birthday, second, or even the third. He wasn’t there on my first day of school either, or when Mamá got sick and couldn’t look after me anymore. I didn’t even see him when the state took me in or when they turned Mamá’s body into ash.
Mamá said his name is Carlos. “I told him, Isabella. He’ll come find you, and you’ll be a family.”
It was one of the last things she said before she died. Still, I’ve never met him.
The biggest crack, the one where no amount of glue or tape will put it back together, happened when I was six. It was ripped off and shattered into a million different pieces. But the hurt wasn’t quick, not really. It was slow, spanning months as, piece by piece, another part of me was taken. Until eventually, there was nothing left to take, and Mamá was gone.
The motel she was cleaning at and my childhood home disappeared from under me.
In a single night, the only family I had left, the woman who read to me every night, and did my hair in fancy braids and perfect pigtails every morning, was gone. I lost it all.
I would give the world just to be able to sit on the floor with nothing but a blunt pencil and spare paper and watch through the window as Ma rushed around to clean the rooms.
I don’t remember much, but I know when she immigrated here, she fell in love with Disney and wanted to give me the childhood she had missed out on.
I still remember the first time we went to McDonald’s because she got a pay raise. I can still hear her sing beautiful songs as she pushed me on the swing or danced with me in the living room. Our stereo was broken, but it
didn't stop Mamá from entertaining her little girl. Nothing would stop her from being the best mother she could be. She spent years saving up so we could go to Disneyland, and we finally did the year she died. That’s when she got me the doll that never left my side and that Mickey keeps saying needs to be washed.
But the hurt didn’t stop there.
Another piece broke off when I got moved into Greg’s house. With each look Marcus gives me and each word that falls from his lips, another bit of my heart splinters off.
But it’s the filling that’s keeping the rest of my broken little heart together.
It’s when Jeremy comes running into my room because he claims to have invented another pun. Or when Mickey “buys” me art and craft supplies, like candle-making kits or polymer clay. Even when he gets in trouble for hitting the other kids at school for being mean to me or, by extension, if I get upset because someone was being mean to Jeremy.
I haven’t told him about Greg and Marcus and everything they do when Mickey drops me off at home. Even if Greg laughs when Marcus calls me a useless whore or pushes things off the table just to get me to clean it, I say nothing. Mickey and I have a plan that doesn’t involve getting me kicked out of the house.
Days like today are always the hardest, but like every other day, Mickey makes it easier. I don’t need to look out the window to know he’s already waiting outside for me. I heard him arrive a while ago—early, like he is on this particular day every year—while I was preparing breakfast for Greg and Marcus. Sometimes Millie helps, but she usually opens the store in the
morning, and I never know when she’ll get home. Honestly, I’m pretty sure she dreads coming home just as much as I do.
If I were her, I would have filed for a divorce and said a prayer for my son, who is more of a monster than his father. My foster brother needs to be locked up. He’s a narcissist, but he’s not a psychopath. He gets his kicks from thinking he’s superior, which is why he shuts the hell up whenever Roman is around. Mickey may be younger and just as tall, but there’s no questioning how lethal he is.
He’s basically my personal bodyguard.
I don’t hear Jeremy coming until I’m tackled against the kitchen bench in a bone-crushing hug.
“Happy birthday, Isa,” he squeals, wiggling from side to side.
I laugh quietly, just in case Greg is still asleep. “Thanks, little man.”
He jumps back with a furious look in his eyes. It’s adorable because I’m a head taller than him and I actually know my times tables. “I’m not little. I’m the fourth tallest in my class.”
“Alright, big man.”
He’s the fourth tallest boy in his class, and there are only thirteen boys. I’ll let him have his victory.
“See?” Jeremy thrusts a stick figure drawing into my hands and points to the boy with curly black hair who’s double the height of the girl with pigtails.
“Points for accuracy,” I quip, smiling at the sloppy, inaccurate spelling of
HAPPY BERTHDAY ISA in blue highlighter at the top. “I’m taller than a big kid.”
“I don’t doubt you for a second.” I really should stop feeding into people’s delusions. “But thank you, Jer. I love it.”
