Home Is Where the Heart Is

I have always envied those with freedom.

I am a part of a family with very little privacy. Everyone always knows everything about everyone else. We live in a little house on a cul de sac in Pennsylvania, all twelve of us.

“Anna!” Grandma Ivette calls. “Dinner!” She and Grandpa Jorge were the first to move into our small space when they were evicted from their old apartment. Really, it was no surprise; they were both very old and loud, and Grandpa Jorge’s job at the nearest Chevron wasn’t enough to support them both. And so, the six of us turned to eight.

Grandma Lolita and Grandpa Claudio came next. They’re both handicapped, and couldn’t survive on their own in California anymore. Uncle Camilo spent a while trying to keep them both alive, but eventually he gave up and all three of them moved in with us.

Aunt Carmen was the last to move into the packed house we call home. She was the writer of the family. She’d kept her work a secret until she could move out (I have no idea how, since no one can keep anything secret around here), when she published it and became a wealthy enough businesswoman in Minnesota.

Then, she met Pepito. She believed it was love, and married him without a second thought. Little did she know, the man was a fraud and only wanted her money. He disappeared within the first week of their marriage, along with all her wealth. She was forced to move in here, broke and hopeless.

My parents are more civilized than anyone else in my family. They met at an art school and started dating barely a month after meeting each other. They married and moved here straight out of college. Ma was pregnant with Damián, my older brother, not long after that. Two years later came Cayo, then Martín, and finally, me. Adrianna, the only little girl in this family.

Having that label is like having a target on your back. If everyone else in this household had barely any privacy, I had none. No, less than none. I learned the hard way not to keep a diary in the first grade, when I caught Damián searching through its pages with a notepad in hand, furiously scribbling down everything he thought might be gossip-worthy.

In ninth grade, I had my first boyfriend. Just when things started to get more serious, Martín (who is only a year older than me) caught wind of our relationship at school. He told my parents, or at least someone in my family, because my parents found out. They were full of demands and questions (‘Do I know his father?’ ‘Are you sure it’s love?’ ‘I must see him immediately!’) That last one was what sent me over the edge. I yelled some things I didn’t mean. I got grounded, and somebody stole my phone to break up with him for me. Since then, no boys have been interested in the ‘weird girl with the pushy family.’ 

Now, I’m a senior. I’m almost up and out of this house and this family. For now, though, I’ll have to go down to dinner and pretend to be happy. That doesn’t sound so hard, right?

Think again.

On my way down the hall, before I can even see the long dining table that takes up half the kitchen space, Cayo opens his door and I walk right into it.

“Hermanita!” he gasps. “Are you alright?” I roll my eyes. It’s the same routine every night; The minute I walk out of my room, Cayo pulls something on me and makes up a silly, unbelievable excuse. Tonight it’s, “I didn’t see you there!” I always keep moving without paying him any heed. He always waits a minute before he follows me.

“There you are, Anna!” Ma says with a warm smile. “Come, sit. We were just about to get started.” The table was set with huge platters of chicken mole, elote corn, and stuffed peppers. We eat like this every meal, and there are never any leftovers. If there’s one thing everyone in my family is proud of, it’s our ability to eat.

I sit, and everyone starts piling their plates with food. As we eat, Aunt Carmen asks, “When will you meet someone else, Anna?” I almost choke on a bite of chicken. No one ever asks about my romantic life. Ever. 

“I don’t know, Auntie,” I say carefully. Ever since last time, any conversation along the lines of having a boyfriend is treading on thin ice. “Maybe when I’m your age.” Grandpa Claudio and Uncle Camilo start laughing, and soon everyone else joins in.

I poke once more at my food, my appetite squashed by Aunt Carmen's question. My gaze drifts up to the window at the end of the dining table. My seat has the best view of our front yard, other than Grandma Lolita, who sits opposite me. 

Outside, a boy who looks to be around my age is watching us from his bike. I can see that he has his helmet under his arm, so he must have been staring through the window for a while. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second, before he turns and rides away.

What I wouldn’t give for his freedom.

I have always been jealous of those with family.

Both my parents died when I was very young. The only thing I can remember them by is a small photograph of us not long after I was born. Since then, I’ve lived in an orphanage and with seven foster families.

Honestly, I can’t decide which was worse.

At the orphanage, at least I knew everyone. I wouldn’t go so far as to call them my ‘friends,’ but at least they were familiar. Every time I went to a new foster family, it was like being dropped into an entirely different world. I don’t know anyone, other than the family I live with. Even then, I don’t know them all that well. After all these years, I’ve turned memorizing everything into an art.

Many places are the same, in a way. There’s always shops, stores, schools, and other kids. Every time I move to a new place, I memorize the names of a grocery store, my high school, my foster parents, and one other person.

Today, I’m with my seventh pair of foster parents. Larissa, the ‘mother’ figure in my current situation, is in the driver’s seat. Paul, the ‘father’ figure, is yelling at Larissa on speaker.

“I’m telling you, we just gotta have that new game! What’s it called?” I could almost hear him picking his ear.

“I don’t think you should get another game, Paul!” Larissa snaps. “You’re obsessed with your video games. What about me? What happened to our love?” I’ve been here for less than a week, and I’ve already heard six conversations almost exactly like this one. Next, Paul always saysー

“Don’t worry, Lyssa, I’m still obsessed with you.” He makes an awful, giggling noise that no man over thirty should be making, let alone someone his age.

“Oh, Paul, stop it!” Her voice is whiny. It’s always whiny. “Just kidding. Don’t stop.” Then, for the rest of the car ride, that’s where I tune out. If I don’t, I’ll have to listen to them whispering lovers’ sweet nothings to one another. That wouldn’t have been so bad if they weren’t both gluttons and fifty. I get the feeling that they didn’t even want a kid, but the idea of one being there to support them financially in forty some-odd years appealed to them.

Instead, I focused on the things we passed by. The Season’s Market was my grocery store in this place. There’s a pizza shop near there, too. Maybe that’s where I’ll go for dinner tonight, since Paul and Larissa don’t give me food.

I have around three hundred dollars from my last foster parents. I don’t ever stay in one place long enough to get a job, and I don’t get an allowance (obviously). I try to go to the cheapest places so that the money depletes slower, but it’s not working very well.

“Come on, Ross,” Larissa says, shutting the car door. I’d been so lost in thought that I hadn’t noticed we were at their house. “Your father and I are going out for dinner tonight, and then we’re going to go look for his new video game. We won’t be home ‘till late, okay? Okay.” Paul? My father? Yeah, right.

When the car pulls out of the driveway and they’re out of my sight, I get on my bike and start pedaling as fast as I can to no particular place. Sometimes, all the refresher I need is the wind in my hair and my hands on the handlebars. I pulled into a large cul de sac, and spun around a few times. The roads were much bigger here.

Just as I was about to turn back, a glowing window in the smallest of the houses caught my eye. Inside, I could see a family. Not a family like Larissa and Paul and me, but a family that relies on one another. They pass the plates and trays of a homemade feast around, and don’t start eating until everyone has their share of food. Slowly, the youngest thereー A girl around her senior year ー looks out through the window and up at me. I hold her gaze for a moment, and I know; I don’t belong in this place. I turn my bike around and pedal away.

What I wouldn’t give to be a part of a family.