The Best Possible Answer(30)

“What’s his story, Mama?” I say.

She pulls her phone from my view and shakes her head.

“Come on,” I say. “Tell me. What’s going on?”

“None of it is your business,” she says, still texting. Then she puts down her phone. “Your father called today.”

“Daddy called?” Mila runs from the window to the table. “Is he home? Where is he?”

My mom bites the side of her mouth and then says, “No. He is not home.”

“But wait,” I say. “When I talked to him, he said he’d be home by now.”

“You talked to Daddy?” Mila yells at me. “I want to talk to Daddy! I haven’t gotten to talk to him in like a month!”

My mom ignores Mila. “He said he might be home by now. Not that he definitely would.”

Mila’s crying now. “I want to talk to Daddy!” she repeats. “It’s not fair! You guys get to talk to him, but I don’t. I’m never part of anything.”

“Mila. Sit down.” My mom shuffles some papers out of the way. “Both of you. I need to talk to you.”

I don’t like this. I was just in a good mood—the best mood—and I want to stay that way, even if it’s for one night. Or at least for more than ten minutes. “I don’t want to.”

“Viviana, come on,” she says. “Sit. This is important.”

Mila’s looking at me through her wet, glossy eyes for a cue of what to do, so I sit down. Mila wipes her nose with her sleeve and takes the chair next to me.

“Your father won’t be home for a while,” my mom says. “Not until September.”

Mila doesn’t understand. “So Daddy won’t be home for our birthdays?”

Mila and I were born 7 years and 364 days apart—her birthday is on the third of July, and mine is on the fourth. I remember being mad at my mom that she couldn’t hold Mila in one more day so that I could have a baby as my birthday present.

My mom shakes her head. “He is busy with this job. And, well, when he comes back in September, he will find a new apartment and move his things then.”

So that’s it. It’s official. It’s happening.

“What are you talking about?” Mila asks. “What does that mean?”

“It means the trial separation is over,” I say. “It means they’re getting a divorce. It means they tried being separated and they liked it better than staying married.” The words spill out, and I know they come out as mean, as maybe too direct, too honest for an eight-year-old’s ears, but my mom’s only going to try to mince words, to soften the blow, and I’m sick of not talking about what’s really happening.

“I did not use the word divorce,” my mom snaps at me. “Please don’t say it like that. You’ll upset your sister.”

Mila is crying, but that’s only to be expected. “That’s not my fault. You can’t blame me for her being upset.”

“I should have talked to you separately.”

“Maybe you should have,” I say. I scoot over next to Mila and put my hand on her back.

“I’m sorry, Mila. I am. I just think you’re right. It isn’t fair that you’re not part of anything, and I think you should know the truth. I think you’re old enough to know the truth.”

Mila shrugs my hand off her back and gives me a wild, angry glare. “I hate you both,” she says. “I hate both of you so much, it hurts.” And then she runs to her room and slams the door.

“Very nice,” my mom says.

I don’t say that I’m sorry to my mom. I mean, I am, but I’m too angry to say anything nice.

“Where is Dad now?”

“He’s staying in Singapore all summer.”

“So we won’t even see him until then?”

“These things take time.”

“Could he at least grant Mila the honor of a phone call?”

“Of course,” she says. “I can talk to him about that.”

“Okay, fine,” I say. “Great.”

“Do you have any questions for me?”

Yes. A million questions. What happened to us? When did we all fall apart? When did we stop being nice to one another? When will we be whole again? Will we ever be whole again?

“Nope,” I say. “Can I be excused now?”

“I know this is difficult for you, Viviana. All of this.”

“Can I be excused now?”

“Yes,” my mom says. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” I say. I leave the room feeling 180 degrees worse than I did when I first walked in. There is no worse than this.





College Admissions Tip #7

An integral part of the college application process should be self-discovery. Colleges want to know that you’re hungry for new knowledge, new experiences, new discoveries. Be a constant searcher!


I crawl under my blanket, half-expecting the waves of panic to start crashing over me. I’m ready for it: the heart palpitations, the dizziness, the nausea. I’m ready for all of it.

But it doesn’t come, at first.

I’m sad, yes. I’m frustrated, yes.