1997
I was seven years old. Our cat gave birth to nine white kittens the other day. They were the most beautiful things I’d laid eyes on since my Limited Edition Barbie that Mom sent me. My grandfather placed them in a cardboard box. Their eyes were closed. I had the urge to hold one of them. I picked one up and carried her to the forest. I named her Nala. She woke up in my palms. Her dark eyes were peeping through, looking up at me.
Nala died a few days later. She slipped from my hands when I was holding her. She didn’t make a sound. I couldn’t make a sound. All I felt were the trees bearing down on me.
2000
I was still nine but considered myself ten. Mom and Dad were over. It was months and months of me waiting for them to arrive. There they were sitting next to me in our living room, as real and American as they could be. I was holding Mom’s right hand as tight as I can. I was scared to lose her. “You’re coming to America! With us!” Dad exclaimed. I was trying to control myself, but I couldn’t help but jump up and down.
A few moths later, I was in my new room. The walls were a peachy pink hue. I was surrounded by Barbies, Beanie Babies, and teddy bears. I was sitting on my pink bed with Dad’s black planner and a black sharpie. In big bold letters I scribbled, “I WANT TO GO HOME.”
2002
I was eleven but hated admitting it to my classmates. I was the oldest in my 5th grade class. The boys made fun of how I pronounced the word, “teeth.” The girls thought I was some kind of slut when I came in with a bright blue training bra peeking through my white button-up uniform shirt. I had two best friends. Their names were Angela and Kimberly. They told me I had really pretty hair.
It was a Saturday afternoon when Mom started telling me parts of everything: Dad isn’t really my dad, and I have three stepsisters and one stepbrother. That explained the photographs I found in Dad’s planner. I asked her about my “actual” dad. She said he had to leave her because it was for the better. Why did he leave me?
2005
It was a beautiful summer night. I was fourteen and I just graduated from elementary school. I was wearing a dark pink dress that fell just above my knees. Grandma was telling me how she wanted a picture with me under the dim lights. Grandpa was flipping through the restaurant menu when she grabbed him by the arm towards us. Dad was holding the camera steady as he counted down to three. The light flashed as I was pulling her closer.
A few months later, mom hung up the phone. It was Grandma. She was back from the hospital. She has cancer. Lymphoma or Hodgkin’s or whatever it is. It’s cancer. Mom’s hand started to reach for mine, but I didn’t want it. I didn’t let her hold me.
2008
“I don’t think you’re old enough,” quipped my uncle as he jokingly offered me a bottle of Corona. I told him it’s too cold, and yes I was only seventeen. We were watching the playoffs. The Giants were playing. I was busy pretending to keep my eyes glued to the game, but every time I turned, there she was. Noemi. She was lying under a red blanket on the couch next to Mom and Damien. Damien hadn’t left her side for hours. His pointy black ears occasionally twitching at every slight move Noemi made. The Giants scored. The room erupted in yells and applause. No barks. Noemi was smiling, her thinning face glowing. Damien looked on, his eyes drooping with emotions we weren’t allowed to show.
A few weeks later, Eli Manning was holding a silver trophy as red, white, and blue confetti were falling from above. “See Noemi, I told you they’d win. I told you, I told you,” Mom cried, her tears trickling down onto the remote control.
2011
It was 3 a.m. and I couldn’t sleep. My best friend, Kimberly sent me a text that left me frozen for a couple of hours. I wasn’t a good friend, apparently. Or in her words, I was “a shitty reason for one.” Just a year ago, similar words of honesty showed up on my phone from the first boy that broke my heart. It was the first of many things. It was the end of many, many more.
I just turned twenty-one a few weeks before, but I didn’t feel like popping champagne bottles. Messages of “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” on my phone, on my laptop, and on birthday cards were screaming reminders of the many shitty reasons to be twenty-one.
2012
“He never left you,” Mom said clutching my hand. I was staring down at the table, avoiding her gaze. “He came back when you turned one. He held you, but you kept crying in his arms.” I looked up. I was trying to control myself, but I couldn’t help but smile.