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𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 , and our house was loud.
Clara's metal music screamed from upstairs like a demon being exorcised. Rosa's pink yoga mat thumped against the living room floor as she worked through her Pilates routine, humming along to a bubblegum pop remix that somehow clashed and blended with Clara's chaos. And Adrian—my sweet, quiet boy—was perched at the kitchen island, scribbling notes into his chemistry workbook with absolute focus, like the world didn't exist outside his pencil and paper.
I stood in the hallway with a laundry basket in my arms, watching it all unfold. There was a time when I thought we'd never make it here—when the idea of a house, of children, of peace, felt like some fantasy for people with easier beginnings.
But we did make it.
I set the basket down and leaned against the wall for a second, letting myself breathe it in. The mess. The noise.
It didn't sound anything like the house I grew up in—and I was more than glad for that.
Adrian looked up from his notebook and adjusted his glasses, then smiled at me—barely, just the corner of his mouth lifting. "Morning, Mama."
"Afternoon," I said with a smile. "You've been glued to that workbook for three hours."
"I'm rewriting my notes. The formatting was bothering me."
Of course he was.
He wasn't like other kids his age. While most boys were glued to gaming consoles or talking about girls, Adrian was reading medical journals for fun or sketching neurons in his sketchbook. He was brilliant. A little odd. Completely ours.
"You want anything?" I asked him.
"No, I'm okay. Thanks."
I walked toward the living room where Rosa was now stretching into some dramatic side plank, looking like a flamingo made of glitter. "Breathe, Rosa," I reminded her.
"I am breathing," she said through gritted teeth, her perfect pink ponytail swinging.
"Through your nose, not like you're in labor."
"I'm building my core, Mama. This is serious business."
"You're thirteen."
She flopped down onto her mat dramatically. "Exactly. If I don't start now, I'll be behind by fourteen."
I shook my head, trying not to laugh. She was so much like me when I was younger it was terrifying. The clothes, the ambition, the dramatics, the obsession with lip gloss. Rosa was the soft pink to Clara's matte black. Complete opposites. But both so fiercely themselves.
Clara came stomping down the stairs a second later. She was wearing a ripped black band tee, matching black nails, and enough eyeliner to scare off a ghost.
