didn’t move. She felt emboldened by the years of being the “spirited” youngest child who was never held accountable for the bruises she left on other people’s feelings.
“I’m serious,” Camila continued, ignoring our mother. “Ever since she arrived from Colombia, everyone has to walk on eggshells. We can’t joke, we can’t be ourselves, all because of that sad little victim expression she always wears. If she can’t handle a little fun, she shouldn’t be here.” She spoke as if Natalia weren’t standing five feet away.
I stepped into the
