Unconditionally Mine. Nadine Gonzalez

stood before the open refrigerator as he’d done as a teen. It was inevitable. When they were home, they reverted to their most juvenile selves.

      Miguel grabbed a can of soda from the fridge. “Knowing dad, he’d rather celebrate with the three b’s—beer, Buffalo wings and baseball.”

      “He wants what I want,” Mom said.

      “Man! You’ve got it good,” Sofia teased.

      “It’s a big anniversary,” Mom said. She worked a knife through a block of queso blanco. “Plus, we’ve had a rough year.”

      Sofia relived it all. Those long nights in the hospital when they weren’t sure she’d pull through had left them all depleted. Her mother was more of herself now, back at work at the shop and cooking Sunday dinners as usual, but with markedly less stamina. That was what worried Sofia, seeing her diminished that way.

      Her mother looked up, wistful. “We need...something. You know?”

      “Absolutely,” Sofia said.

      Nothing was as cathartic as a good old-fashioned party with dinner, dancing and drinks—the whole shebang. It was what the family needed to turn the page.

      “Look at this.” Her mother handed over her phone, the browser open to a Pinterest page. Sofia reviewed pins of venues, flowers, table settings, themes and dresses. “I’m doing it right this time.”

      Her parents had eloped at the downtown courthouse. “Doing it right” would likely involve a priest.

      “Can you afford all this, Mom?” Sofia asked.

      Miguel dropped to the floor and held a plank position. “Can you afford Sofia?”

      Her mother returned her attention to the stove, stirring a pan of paella. “I don’t buy crazy expensive purses and shoes like some people do. I’ve had the same Coach bag for the last three years and my Camry is a decade old. So, yes, you two, I can afford this.”

      Sofia let the targeted criticism slide. Her parents worked hard and were financially sound. Her dad owned a construction company. Some years it had flourished, others it flailed. But since Miguel had joined the team, expanding operations and taking risks, business was good. Her mother ran a fabric shop downtown, and business had always been steady. Their house was paid off and their retirement secured, but they hadn’t traveled or taken a vacation in decades.

      “What’s your budget?” Sofia asked.

      “Five thousand dollars, and your services are free.”

      Five grand didn’t get you much these days, but her mother didn’t have to know that.

      “You brag about working magic for your clients. It’s time you do the same for your family.”

      “Yeah, Sofia,” Miguel said, mid push-up. “Work your magic.”

      “Just watch me,” Sofia said.

      She took out her own phone and pulled up her calendar. “Your anniversary is the first Wednesday in April. We should schedule the party on the Friday or Saturday.”

      “Saturday.”

      “That’s three months away. We’re going to have to hustle. I’ll need you to be decisive. No mulling over fabrics and flowers for days. Okay?”

      Sofia scrolled through Pinterest, pausing at a pin of a white-and-gold place setting. It was gaudy enough to satisfy her mother’s tastes while remaining tasteful.

      “I want you and Franco to say a few words at the reception—as a couple.”

      Sofia lowered the phone. “Why? Isn’t that Miguel’s job? He’s the oldest.”

      “I’m depressed and divorced.” Miguel hopped to his feet. “Haven’t you heard?”

      “You’re depressing,” Sofia said. “I know that much.”

      “Leave your brother alone, will you?” her mother scolded. “Not everyone is as lucky as you and Franco. Where’s Franco, anyway?”

      “Yeah, Sofia,” Miguel said evenly. “Where is Franco, anyway?”

      She glared at him. “Busy. Work stuff.”

      At the mention of Franco’s name, Sofia’s mask had nearly cracked. Her parents would not take the news of the breakup well. They were traditional. A married life was a settled life, in their opinion. Her mother, in particular, had had a hard time with Miguel’s divorce and she hadn’t even liked his wife. Sofia knew how her mother’s mind worked. Her illness and Miguel’s misfortune were signs the family was vulnerable, brittle, falling apart. The end of Sofia’s engagement would make it clear. Even Miguel, who knew the whole story, and who’d appeared sympathetic when she’d shown up at his door with an overnight bag, didn’t seem to be taking it too well now.

      Sofia was sixteen when she and Franco met. Franco played ball with Miguel on weekends and could be counted on for Sunday dinner. As a result of their splitting up, the whole family would have to break up with him as well. That was going to be a tough sell.

      “Too bad,” her mother said. “He loves my paella.”

      Nobody loved her mother’s paella. Did it do the trick at the end of a long day? Sure. Did anyone wake up craving it? No. Was it technically paella? Not even close. Just some yellow rice with peas, peppers and cod tossed in—not necessarily heart healthy, either. Her mother wasn’t the fine Latina cook she thought herself to be. In fact, her mother wasn’t Latina at all. She was African American. At nineteen, Clarissa Ross fell in love with Antonio Silva, the smooth-talking Dominican boy who’d moved into the apartment down the hall from hers. Ten months later, she was pregnant. They got married and lived happily-ever-after. All that being said, her mofongo was off the charts and her chicken potpie was legendary.

      “You and Franco represent the future of our family,” her mother said. “Can I count on you two to say a few words? Nothing fancy.”

      “Yeah, Sofia,” Miguel chimed. “Nothing fancy. You and Franco can handle that.”

      What was Miguel’s problem? And what was she going to tell her mother? Their family had no future? She wasn’t that cruel.

      * * *

      That Sunday, after dinner with her family, Sofia sat in her car for a long time thinking about the future. Had she been too quick to toss out the past and Franco with it? She drove to Aventura, back to the home she’d abandoned, where most of her clothes, her comfy pants and her favorite pillow had been left behind. It was time she and Franco had a talk.

      He greeted her at the door, looking rumpled and contrite. They sat at the dining table. Franco rushed to apologize.

      “None of those women meant anything to me.”

      Women. Plural. Did he have to remind her that it wasn’t just one faceless girl, but legions?

      “I never met any of them in real life,” he continued. “It was all for play. Something to do when I was bored.”

      “So, I bored you.”

      “No,” Franco said. “That’s not what I meant. Damn it, Sofia. I wish there was a way for me to make it all up to you.”

      Sofia raised a hand to silence him. That silence stretched on forever. They sat at the table, not speaking, not even looking at each other. Sofia had promised herself that the breakup wouldn’t break her. But when finally she tried to speak, her voice buckled and failed. She took a breath and started again.

      “We’re family,” she said.

      Franco had been there for her the whole time her mother was in the hospital. He’d shown up early with coffee and returned after work. He’d brought her dinner, a change of clothes, whatever she needed. He ran errands for her dad. He’d been like...a brother.

      Franco exhaled with