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.”
He grins the same type of shit-eating grin he must have learned from Mickey. “I asked Ro if he wanted to go halves on a present with me, but he said no.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “His loss.”
Jeremy is too smug for a twelve-year-old. I’d boil it down to the fact he thinks he’s the smartest kid in his grade (he’s the sixth smartest), and he’s friends with the “cool kids.”
I lean in closer. “Don’t tell him, but your gift will be way cooler anyway. You’re better at drawing.”
His eyes light up, but he acts nonchalant as he grabs a slice of toast. “Ms. Terry said I’m a natural at everything I do.”
Note to self: teach Jeremy how to be humble.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to school today?”
“Yes,” he drawls. “It’s weird if you do.”
“Your loss.” I don’t know why I still bother asking. He hasn’t said yes in over a year. Jeremy thinks he’s too grown up to be walked to school by his foster sister, so it’s just me and Mickey now.
Shaking my head, I tuck the drawing away in my bag for safekeeping and head outside. Jeremy barely notices me pat his head before I leave, too caught in his fairy tale of Lord knows what.
My heart skips a beat when I see him. It’s been doing that a lot more lately. He makes butterflies erupt from every corner of my belly, and the entire world seems to revolve around Mickey. He’s trouble on legs, and he’s all mine.
I think.
I hope.
I’m all his, at least.
Now that he isn’t at school anymore, who knows how many girls he’s talking to. Before he graduated, all the girls in the neighborhood would throw themselves at him. He never looked at them once, but people change. He has so much more freedom, and I know the admin girl from his work at the garage, Cassie, always bats her eyelashes at him, especially when he’s all greased up, unshaven, and sweaty.
Then she gets handsy. Or at least tries to. Roman pushes her away like he’s uncomfortable, but I think that’s because I’m there.
In the morning, after school, and right after dinner on some nights, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Cassie isn’t around, and Mickey is all mine. When I’m at school, and once I’m in bed, I guess Cassie is all his.
But every morning, the space beneath my ribs blooms from the sight of him leaning against his motorcycle, muscled arms straining against a black t-shirt, with cargo pants belted around his hips.