Mariana knew how to stay when nobody was watching.
Beatrice knew only how to occupy.
She sat in the first row with her legs crossed, one hand resting possessively on Damian’s arm. Every few minutes, she glanced toward the back of the auditorium, as if checking whether Mariana had remembered her place. Beside her sat Beatrice’s mother, her cousin, and two men Mariana had never seen before, all taking photos like they had earned the right to frame Miguel’s future.
Patricia leaned closer.
“No.”
“Mariana—”
“No,” Mariana whispered, though her voice shook. “Not today. Let him have his day.”
Patricia’s eyes filled with angry tears. “This is his day because of you.”
Mariana looked at the stage.
“I know.”
But knowing did not make it hurt less.
The school was one of the best private high schools in Northern Virginia, the kind with stone columns, manicured lawns, and parents who discussed college admissions like stock portfolios. Miguel had earned a nearly full scholarship after scoring in the top percentile on his entrance exam. Mariana had covered the rest by working double shifts at a community clinic in Arlington, cleaning exam rooms, managing patient files, translating for Spanish-speaking families, and sometimes sewing alterations at night for neighbors who paid in cash.
