. . • ☆ . ° TWILIGHT.• °:. *₊ ° . ☆
❝Your feelings and mine are all lonely
And dawn comes, you're there lying
with me And you reach out to touch
me. But I am in the twilight❞
✧ ˚ · .
FEMOCXPAULLAHOTE
☆。*...
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★
"I told you! That woman is a demon, did I not tell him?" Lita's aunt, Livina, exclaimed from the dinner table, shaking her head as Victor finished recounting the conversation with María.
"Basta, Livina," Abuela interjected, her voice sharp despite the exhaustion behind it. "Estoy cansada de esta conversación. ¿No delante de Lita, eh? Sigue siendo la madre de la niña." (Enough, Livina. I'm tired of this conversation. Not in front of Lita, eh? She's still the girl's mother.)
Lita sat quietly, dragging her fork through her food as the conversation swirled around her. The apartment was packed now. The quiet, hollow ache of the last few days had been replaced with the constant hum of voices and footsteps. Her family had flown in from Mexico, scraping together what little they had to be here—not because they knew Mateo, but because Victor needed them. Because they cared.
And yet, Lita felt like a stranger in her own home.
The rapid-fire Spanish bounced off the apartment walls, voices layering over each other, filling the air with an energy she should've found comforting. Instead, it felt like she was standing outside a house with all the windows shut, watching her own family from behind the glass.
"She didn't even come," Livina muttered, stabbing her food. "Su propio hijo—her own son, and she's on a damn honeymoon?"
"She was always like that," one of the older uncles said, shaking his head. "Desde que era niña, soñando con América, con la vida de las películas. Ni siquiera quería ser mexicana." (Ever since she was a child, dreaming of America, of that movie-star life. She didn't even want to be Mexican.)
"Ay, pero bien mexicana que se sentía cuando le convenía," (Oh, but she sure acted Mexican when it suited her.) another tía added with a scoff. "Until she had what she wanted, and then puf, se desapareció."
Lita's stomach tightened. They weren't wrong about María—her mother had always been obsessed with chasing a life bigger than the one she left behind in Puebla. But this wasn't just about María anymore. It was about her too.
"I can understand you, you know," Lita said suddenly, looking up from her plate.
Her tía Livina raised an eyebrow. "¿Sí?"
"Yes." Lita narrowed her eyes, her voice even.
Livina gave her a knowing smile, like she was humoring a child. "We didn't think you did, mija. You never visit. And your Spanish..." She made a wobbly motion with her hand, teasing but not kind.
Lita clenched her jaw. "My Spanish is fine."
Her abuela, sitting beside her, reached over and rubbed her arm. "Pero claro que sí, mi niña," (Of course it is, my girl.) she cooed, in that same tone adults use when lying about Santa Claus.
