LILIANA
18 Months Later
Ithink about the day Carlos asked me what I wanted to achieve in a year a lot. Back then, things had seemed so simple. The future had been bleak but I still had an inkling of what it would look like.
If someone had told me I would find myself here back then, I never in a million years would have believed them. And yet here I am, in a rocking chair, with a 9 month old baby in my arms.
I still can’t believe I actually got pregnant from a one night stand.
A lullaby plays on my lips as Milagro Zaccari sleeps. She’s the cutest baby girl in the world. The most precious thing, too. She’s a beautiful, sweet baby, but she’s entirely her father’s daughter. Every time I look at her face, I see him.
And sometimes it scares me, but other times, it warms my heart. We made her together. Why wouldn’t she look like him? She’s just as much his as she is mine. But I know without a doubt there’s not an inch of darkness in my little girl. She inherited all the good parts. She’s the best of both of us.
Although a voice whispers in my mind sometimes, asking if my baby’s daddy actually had any good parts.
The sun sets in the horizon as I continue to rock the baby in my arms, careful not to wake her up. It’s serene here, peaceful around this time of the day. People will soon start arriving from work though, and with their arrival comes noise. Noise that’s sure to wake the baby.
I look down the street I grew up on. Not a lot has changed here in twenty-four years. Same battered roofs, same rough road with potholes and gravel lining the edges. Several of the neighbors’ lawns are overgrown, the roofs need fixing and their houses in dire need for repair. But the people here are too busy to care about all that. They’re out chasing their daily bread, trying their best to survive. Just like mama has always done.
I wanted to get her out of here, instead I fell right down the slopes myself. Shame wells within me, but I quell it with one look at my daughter’s face. It’s hard to regret my choices, when it led me to her.
Plus I can always pick myself up from the bottom of the slopes.
“Liliana, come here,” my mother calls out in Spanish from somewhere in the house.
I sigh, before getting to my feet slowly, hoping it won’t wake Mila. But it’s a lost cause. As soon as I move, her eyelids flutter open. My heart skips a tiny beat every time I look into her eyes. They’re the same as mine. So bright and beautiful.
“Hey, Mimi,” I murmur. “Did you have a nice nap?”
She smiles up at me, her little hand immediately going up to my hair. Her favorite thing to play with.
“No. You are not ruining my hair. I just brushed it for the first time in weeks,” I scold.
She giggles like I said something funny. Carrying her, I head into the house but once we’re in the living room, I set herdown beside some of her toys. She’s already crawling so she immediately moves to grab one while I look towards the door of the kitchen, meeting my mother’s eyes.
If I had to describe my relationship with my mother, I’d say it’s complicated. Has been since the day I grew a consciousness and could speak. She’s probably the strongest person I know and has sacrificed so much for me to live a good life. Which is why I was so terrified of how she would react when I showed up at her doorstep one month pregnant over a year ago.
I’m still waiting on the reaction.
Nothing ever really fazes Marisol Zaccari.
At 5 foot 3, she’s even shorter than me, with a slight stature and dark hair that stops above her shoulders. But don’t let her physique fool you. I’ve seen her take down men twice as big as her. She can be a tiger when she wants to be, with intimidating brown eyes and a mouth that’s always primed with a cutting remark or two.
I walk into the kitchen, making sure to keep an eye on Mila who’s blissfully distracted with her stuffed zebra.
“You have your I’m about to say something mean face, mama,” I point out lightly.
“This is my regular face,” she states, placing that hand that’s holding a spatula on her hips.
“What’s up?”
She frowns, “You have been sitting on your ass for far too long.”
I knew this was coming. She’s been pestering me about getting a job for months now. But the thought of waddling through this small town, only to get a job as a small timewaitress at some diner or a part time job in front of a counter at a store has my heart clenching.
“I don’t want to go back to doing all those odd jobs, mama,” I say furtively. “I want something better for myself.”
Her eyes narrow, “You should have thought of that before you got pregnant. We take whatever life hands at us and we make the best of it. I’ve called Mr. Wells at the pizza place, he will give you a good job at his kitchen.”
