𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙖𝙘𝙩, 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚.
SECTION THREE: CYCLES—0001.

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CHRISTENED BY HER MOTHER WITH THE MIDDLE NAME DULCE—A WORD LADEN WITH SWEETNESS IN SPANISH—WILMARIE WAS MEANT TO EMBODY AN INNATELY DELIGHTFUL AND CHARMING NATURE, AMENABLE AS A DELICATE FLOWER UNFURLING IN A LUSH GARDEN OF BLOSSOMING ORCHIDS AND ROSES WITHOUT THORNS. Yulissa chose it because she envisioned her youngest daughter as a wellspring of warmth in the isolated, all-American culture that had left her jaded; she was supposed to be soft-hearted and gentle, a confection of a girl. The way Yulissa herself was meant to be if she'd stayed in the Dominican Republic—docile yet indelible, softly spoken but captivating, lovely like the lingering taste of honey on the tongue. Unforgettable, like the final treat a diabetic savors before the sugar rush kills them.

She is her mother's last daughter: all of Yulissa's fantasies and dreams reborn in her, the final opportunity to see her hopes and aspirations take shape in a world that had denied her even a taste of the sweetness she once craved.

Wilmarie is Yulissa's youngest daughter.
She is also her greatest disappointment.

It isn't that she didn't try—because Wilmarie did try. She made a sincere effort, pouring all the honesty of her small heart into meeting her mother's expectations. She was born with a beaming smile and a dimple to please her, small-framed and fragile, bursting with a compassion that damaged her permanently. She twirled in dresses and straightened her hair each week like a good girl, no matter the pain. Always happy. Forever jovial. But if Yulissa had hoped for an evening primrose, she instead found herself tending a vindictive belladonna.

Wilmarie didn't want to be the way she was, not really—but there was a dark satisfaction in every argument with her mother. In provoking any reaction: a slap that left her cheeks bruised for days, bleeding scratches down her arms, the sharpness in Yulissa's voice when her composure cracked. It was intoxicating, watching her saintly mother unravel. It felt gratifying to be scrutinized by church friends for a shirt too tight or a skirt too short. To fail Yulissa by kissing too many girls, or hooking up with too many boys—oh, it felt good. It felt nice.

Truthfully, Wilmarie couldn't explain when the deep hatred began. The moment when affection twisted into resentment was lost somewhere in her memory, but it simmered beneath her teeth and tongue, eroding the sweetness her mother cursed her with.

She wasn't like... him.
Not like the boy who looked at his mother as though Sally had plucked every star from the sky and arranged them into a celestial path for him. No—Wilmarie's feelings were far messier: unreasonable, moronic, illogical, tangled in a web of unspoken disappointments and unfulfilled expectations. The failures she grew into.

It had been satisfying, ruining all of her mother's dreams. She never wanted to carry any of them. But even she had to admit she might have taken it too far this time.

The damned positive test on the cold bathroom floor seemed to mock her, taunting and jeering.

At the very least, her mother couldn't beat her for this.
Yulissa knew hypocrisy was still considered a sin.

As if sharing one mind, Thiago and Ilaria exchanged a knowing look. He looked faintly amused beneath the disapproval clouding his face, while Ilaria cackled like a deranged witch, fully entertained by Wilmarie's misery.

"It was gonna be me or you," Ilaria laughed from the bathtub. Leaning on the toilet—truly rock bottom—Wilmarie sniffled miserably, the skin of her cheeks rubbed raw from crying. Thiago, who hadn't let go of her hand even after she'd thrown up on him earlier, squeezed gently.

"How would it be you?" Thiago shot back at Ilaria. "You smoke so many damn roaches you can barely function. Ain't no way anyone's choosing you as their bum-ass baby mama."

Ilaria raised her hands in mock surrender. "I'm just saying!" She rolled her eyes. "Wils is fine. Mama Abuela had Mom at like thirteen, and Mami had Alvie at fourteen. Sixteen is ancient."

A helpless sound escaped Wilmarie. She gasped, breath hitching, searching for words that wouldn't come. Thiago rubbed the back of her neck, grounding her.

"Do I look like I'm fine?" she snapped, blindly clawing at the floor until her fingers wrapped around the test. She hurled it at her sister.

Ilaria shrieked.

"¡Coño!" she yelped as it nearly hit her face. "What the fuck, Wilmarie?!"

Thiago lunged to grab Wilmarie before she could leap up and attack. "Cálmate, cálmate!" he pleaded, eyes wide. "Chill before—"

A knock sounded at the door.

All three froze.

"Is everything okay in there?" Alvie's voice carried through the wood.

Wilmarie slapped both hands over her mouth to hold back another wave of nausea. Thiago and Ilaria exchanged looks of pure dread.

"Who was the last one who said they were going to the bathroom?" Thiago hissed. Another knock made them all jump.

"I'm— I'm on my period! Go away!" Ilaria screamed. "It fuckin' stinks and it hurts!"

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.

Just as Wilmarie dared to hope he'd leave, the doorknob rattled. Locked—but that had never stopped Alvie before.

"Really?" he asked flatly. The knob shook again. "Because I remember Gogo went in to shit an hour ago, and before that, Wils said she was gonna shower. She never came out. Her chanclas are still by the door."

"We're saving water by using the bathroom together," Thiago blurted. "We're just trying to be more environmentally conscious! Lowering bills and shit!"

Tears welled up again. Wilmarie knew—knew—that excuse wasn't going to work. The knob rattled again, harder this time.

Her breath hitched. Something slimy and unbearable climbed up her throat. She looked at Thiago, panicked—but he was just as scared.

The door swung open.

Her heart plummeted.

She tried—God, she tried—to cover her mouth, but it was too late.

A torrent of vomit erupted straight onto Alvie.

He froze, drenched, staring at the chaos.

The smell hit immediately.
Wilmarie trembled, mortified beyond words.
The bathroom went silent except for her ragged breathing.

In the bathtub, Ilaria gagged—and then threw up too.

Thiago cursed into his hands. "It was occupied," he muttered.

Wilmarie burst into tears.

Alvie's tongue pressed against his cheek with a palpable sense of annoyance. 

His brow furrowed deeply, a storm brewing on his face, anger flashing in his eyes like lightning. His tousled black curls clung damply to his forehead—still wet from the shower he'd taken in their mother's private bathroom—while the three younger siblings scrubbed the chaos out of their shared one.

Water trickled down the contours of his face in uneven paths: a drop down the bridge of his nose, another down his cheek. Alvie didn't bother to wipe them away. He only paced, back and forth across the living room, wrapped in a silence so heavy it felt defeating. His fists clenched and unclenched as he gathered his thoughts, knuckles whitening; he worried his bottom lip until it matched in color, then exhaled sharply through his nose. Her oldest brother was gentle like that—never raising his voice, never lifting a hand, refusing to surrender to the outbursts of rage passed down from their father.

It was terrifying.
His silence held every ounce of his disappointment, and he didn't need a single word to make it clear how impossible the distance between them suddenly felt.

"How far along are you?" Alvie asked, the question heavy, steady, searching. She could feel his eyes trying—desperately—to find answers in hers. Wilmarie looked away. Instead, she focused on the trail of water running down his jaw, down his neck, following their paths as if they held some kind of escape from the distress carved into his expression.

"Two months." She whispered it, barely audible.

Alvie cradled his jaw roughly, nodding and nodding again as if repetition could undo reality. "Two months," he echoed. "You still have options, Wils. There are injections—pills, if you're scared. It won't hurt." His voice softened, trembling with urgency. "We don't have to tell Mami. She can't force you to keep it. I can take you to a clinic without her knowing. I can sign everything. You just have to say yes."

It was that—the pleading in his voice. A desperation she had never heard from him. It cut through her like nothing else.

Because here's the truth: disappointing Yulissa had always brought Wilmarie a twisted sense of satisfaction, like payback for every time her mother had let them down. For marrying an abusive man and pretending he was love. For overlooking their needs. For prioritizing everything except her children. Resentment had carved itself into Wilmarie's bones long before she ever found the words for it.

But Alvie—
Alvie was the eldest. Her brother.
He had parented all of them. Even her mother. He stayed up late helping with homework, soothing nightmares, handling tantrums, and mending wounds—emotional and otherwise—while Yulissa drowned her misery in bottles and excuses. From the moment he was born, the responsibility had been forced onto him. He never asked for it, never wanted it, but he carried all of them anyway.

Now she could see the weight of everything crashing over him. The worry, the fear, the future already unraveling in his mind. Alvie had dreams once—real ones—but he always shoved them aside for the family.

And having a baby now—her baby—
would shatter every fragile bit of stability he'd managed to hold together.

She knew that. She knew exactly how much he had sacrificed. She knew she could not make things worse for him.

She had never—ever—wanted to fail her brother.

Wilmarie loved him more than anything in the universe, except for...

Well.
He knew.

Alvie shut his eyes and looked toward the ceiling, unable to look at her. "But you won't," he said, the words heavy with resignation. "You won't do it." He swallowed, defeated. "Because the dad is Percy Jackson."

She doesn't understand why she still clings to hope. Why she's still waiting for something that will never happen.

She is sixteen years old—hardly better than the mother she pretends to despise—and she got pregnant by a boy who does not care about her. A boy who had already vanished from her life once, only to return with pretty promises about loving her forever and ever before disappearing again.

Without her, Percy had grown up to be a beautiful liar.

And without him, Wilmarie had spent all her time becoming nothing at all.

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𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ! ! !

Thank you for reading!