I spent my 27th birthday in a very special way. My mom texted me: “We sold your car—family comes first. You should be grateful we still let you live here.” Then another message arrived: “Your brother is about to start college. You’re going to pay for his first semester. 108,000 pesos. This week.”

PART 2

At 7:03 a.m., my cell phone started vibrating like it had gone crazy.

I was on Sofia’s couch, wrapped in a blanket, having barely slept. She lived in a small apartment in Narvarte, which she shared with her cousin, but when she opened the door for me the night before, she didn’t ask any questions. She just hugged me and said, “You’re safe here.”

That hug hurt more than my mom’s screams.

Because it reminded me how strange it was when someone didn’t charge you for affection.

First my mom called. Then my dad. Then Diego. Then my aunt Carmen. Then my grandmother Rosario.

I didn’t answer.

I did read the messages, though.

“What did you do, Mariana?”

“You’re sick.”

“Why did you send that to the whole family?”

“Your dad is furious.”

“Is it true that you paid