My cousin

My cousin used to come to our house every summer to spend the vacations with us. I always looked forward to those days, not only to get a break from boring school, but also to sleep in a little later and play until I was exhausted. She had everything I yearned for. We were the exact same age,nine years old, to be precise. She had a sweet, tender face; she loved playing with her dolls, and sometimes, I was lucky enough that she would lend them to me. Her dresses were the prettiest things I could ever imagine; perhaps that was what inspired me to study fashion design later on.My cousin had it all. Her parents spoiled her like their most precious treasure. I, a poor girl with short hair and dresses empirically handmade by my mother, felt that we should have swapped lives. She didn't have to share a bed with her siblings or wait to see if there was any bread left over before asking for another piece.She taught me songs I had never heard and games I didn't know existed. Her original Barbie dolls and her Ken boyfriend were a dream to me. Every time they came to visit and she fell asleep, I would take the opportunity to caress the dolls. The strange thing was that she only played while sitting in that metal chair with wheels. I wanted us to go out and run in the yard, to play hide and seek, estatuas de marfil, or run from the big bad wolf; but she loved her dolls and wouldn't leave them for a second.Summer vacations always ended too soon, and she had to return to the big city to keep enjoying her life of luxury: exquisite meals, expensive music, singing, and language lessons with private tutors, something I could only imagine. Meanwhile, in my world, I also tried to be happy, waiting for the next vacation so we could enjoy the dolls and tea sets together.Back then, the years passed more slowly, and we were growing up; we were reaching puberty, they said. I didn’t understand it, but it certainly wasn't something that made the adults happy, because the phone calls became more frequent, and sorrow flooded their faces.One day, a package arrived at our house. It contained many beautiful dresses and shoes; they were a gift from my aunt to me. I felt like all my dreams were coming true that day; I wore a different one every day. Inside the box, there was only one Barbie doll. It didn't matter; it was the doll I had wanted so badly. It didn't matter that it was just one and that it was used: it was mine, and it was the most beautiful.From then on, my expectations grew because I was already dressing like a princess, and I felt that I could have everything I desired. I would travel to the big city and trade my life for my cousin’s, because with these gifts, my aunt was letting me know she loved me very much, and it would be easy. Besides, the last time she came alone, she hugged me tightly, and tears slipped down her cheeks. She asked me if I wanted to go with her, and I answered yes, overjoyed. But my mother cut my dreams short, making it clear that I would never escape her shadow. I didn't know why she hated me so much. I kept dreaming and growing; close to my fifteenth birthday, my aunt returned to our house alone. But that time, she didn't arrive with bags of used clothes or garments that someone else didn't want anymore. She arrived with a different smile and a large box in her hands. When she opened it in front of me, I felt my heart leap inside, and I couldn't control my emotions: it was a deep pink, bright, beautiful quinceañera dress, like the ones I had only seen in magazines or on television. It seemed to illuminate even the saddest corner of our house.The first time I put it on, I stood staring at myself in silence in front of the mirror. I couldn't believe that girl was me. For a few minutes, I stopped feeling like the girl in the mended dresses, worn-out shoes, and small dreams. I felt pretty, important, special… the way every princess should feel on her fifteenth birthday. I spun around as many times as I could in my dress; I felt like I was floating on spring air.And then came the party.From early on, the house was full of movement, music, dishes coming and going, laughter, and people coming in to congratulate me. On a table stood my cake, beautiful and elegant, decorated in shades of pink and white. I can still remember the thrill I felt when I saw the candles lit and everyone singing around me. There were also gifts, some simple and others unexpected, but all filled with affection. I looked at them with an emotion that is hard to explain because I wasn't used to feeling so celebrated.My younger brother, looking as serious and nervous as if he were carrying a great responsibility, dressed up in formal wear to be my chambelán. When he took my hand to dance the waltz, I felt a lump in my throat. In that moment, I completely forgot about the hardships, the difficult days, and my mother's harsh character. I only wanted to enjoy that night I had imagined so many times.And boy, did I enjoy it.I danced like never before in my life. I danced cumbias, rancheras, romantic music, and whatever played. I spun over and over again, watching the skirt of my dress fill the dance floor. I also danced with a very special doll with curly hair and a dress similar to mine. My feet ended up aching, and my dress was marked by the party: the hem was dirty from the dust, from so many spins, from so many shoes accidentally stepping on it. But far from upsetting me, those stains seemed like proof that I had lived a truly happy night.The party stretched into the early morning hours. Exhaustion was overcoming all of us, but nobody wanted it to end. I remember that at one point I sat down to rest a bit and almost ended up on the floor because the huge hoop of the dress pushed the chair backward. For a second, I felt myself falling backward, and everyone burst into laughter while I laughed too, embarrassed and happy at the same time. It was one of those simple moments that remain etched in your mind forever.When the dawn began to paint the sky, there was still music, plates on the tables, and relatives chatting as if time didn't exist.And the next day came something that, in my family, was also part of the celebration: the leftovers. We woke up tired, with messy hair and aching feet, but happy. The house still smelled of food and celebration. We sat together again to eat what was left over from the night before while remembering anecdotes, laughing at the dance moves, and opening some gifts more calmly. Without thinking about anyone else, not even my cousin,the one who in my head had it all,that day, I only thought of myself.Because that night, I didn't just celebrate my fifteen years.I celebrated that, despite everything, I too deserved to feel loved.A few days later, my aunt, whom I idealized as the perfect mother, left to return to her family. Watching her go, that old bitterness invaded me again: I felt trapped with the wrong family. In my childish mind, I was convinced that the stork had gotten distracted and dropped me off at the wrong house, far from the luxuries and affection that, according to me, only she knew how to give.However, reality caught up with me on an unexpected afternoon, hidden behind the murmur of an adult conversation that was not meant for my ears. I heard my parents speaking in a tone of voice I had never heard from them before, a mixture of respect and pity. They spoke of my aunt's "unbreakable strength" and how she managed to keep going despite the tragedies knocking at her door.¡Poor woman! whispered my mother. "Having to take care of two disabled children for years, and now her husband falls ill!"¡She is a warrior,my father replied.The fact that the girl didn't survive her last surgery during puberty was a blow from which no one recovers, but she has kept moving forward all this time!The world stopped. In that instant, the chill of truth ran down my spine, and all the pieces of the puzzle fit together with a staggering reality. I finally understood why my cousin never accepted my invitations to run among the trees or play hide-and-seek; I understood that her refuge in dolls was not a rich girl's whim, but her only way of exploring a world her legs could not reach. That metal chair with wheels was not a throne; it was her anchor.Now I knew why my aunt arrived alone and why she hugged me with such desperation. In my handmade dresses and sacrifices, but surrounded by love, and in my races across the yard, she saw the life her own daughter could never have. My envy turned into a lump in my throat; I had everything she yearned for, and it wasn't the Barbies, was the freedom to walk.I looked at my hands and then lowered my gaze to my legs, the ones that had so often carried me running to the yard while my cousin could only watch from her metal chair. The pink dress from my fifteen years, which still hung in the room, stopped looking like a princess's trophy and began to weigh on me like a shroud.I felt a sudden wave of nausea recalling how many nights I blamed destiny for leaving me in the wrong house. How foolish innocence is when mixed with ambition. I envied her Barbies while she envied my lungs full of air; I desired her luxuries, while she only wished that one day she could go out to play and run with me and our friends.I finally understood my mother's silence and her iron fist. Her house was not a prison; it was the refuge that kept me grounded to the earth, to life, far from the mirages of an opulence that smelled of tragedy. My mother didn't hate me; she was protecting me from wishing for a life that was nothing more than a countdown.An indescribable fear ran down my spine as I understood the most brutal truth of all: my aunt didn't give me dresses out of pure kindness; she gave them to me because she no longer had anyone to put them on. She asked me if I wanted to go with her because she was looking to fill the void her daughter's last breath had left with my own breathing.I closed my eyes, clenching my fists tightly. The revelation struck my chest like a mallet: if the stork hadn't "made a mistake," if destiny had granted my whim of being born into that cradle of silk and lace, I wouldn't be celebrating my fifteen years today.If we had traded places, it wouldn't be me telling this story today. If I had lived her life, today I would be the one resting six feet under.Years have passed, and from the perspective of maturity, I look back with a clarity that only time concedes. I thank God for the path He traced for me and for the home where I grew up, finally understanding that what I used to call scarcity was, in reality, my greatest sanctuary.I have walked through triumphs and failures, but my greatest achievement is, simply, being here. The envy I felt as a child has transformed into a pleasant peace; today, I do not wish for anyone else's luck. I embrace the abundance of my present with all my soul and value every second next to the people who walk by my side. I am alive, whole, and, at last, grateful for my own story.I have walked through triumphs and failures, but my greatest achievement is, simply, being here. The envy I felt as a child has transformed into a pleasant peace; today, I do not wish for anyone else's luck. I embrace the abundance of my present with all my soul and value every second next to the people who walk by my side. I am alive, whole, and, at last, grateful for my own story. The summers of our childhood were over, and so were we.