“If you go through with this wedding, you’re not welcome in our house anymore.”

“Fine. I don’t want to live here anyway. It doesn’t feel like home.”

Valentina’s parents still hadn’t grown accepting of her marriage. Though they were cordial to Mosiah, she knew this was only for her benefit. It certainly didn’t help that he was petty and opinionated, and had made it perfectly clear what he thought of his in-laws. Today, he’d promised Valentina he’d behave, but Mosiah was stubborn, and refused to dress in anything other than his usual black makeup and fishnets.

Viola was one year old, though she didn’t look it. The toddler was small, and took up much more of Valentina’s time than Maia ever had. She had a sense of guilt, still, about her daughter’s disability. She had a perpetual sense that it had been her fault. Viola got around on her hands and legs, but had no muscle control in her lower body. This had led to the use of mobility aids such as walkers and crawlers - but mobility aids were expensive, and they had to be upgraded as Viola grew.

She wasn’t close with Esther. The girl didn’t seem to like her much, and followed Mosiah around everywhere he went, like she was afraid of being left alone. Maybe she was. When her husband came to her with the suggestion of adopting Esther, Valentina hadn’t been against it. She’d wanted a large family since she was a little girl, but had become too afraid to get pregnant again after Viola’s complicated birth. Esther adored Maia, confused as to why the little girl was shy around her. For many children, change was difficult. For a toddler, suddenly having another child move in with you would be disorienting and confusing.

“Mamá,” said Maia, pushing her sister in a little stroller, “when are we going to abuelita’s house?”

Valentina’s parents had recently gotten in touch with her: not to speak with her, but to insist they needed to meet their granddaughter. In the four years since her birth, Maia had never met her grandparents, and she didn’t know any better. Although Valentina didn’t feel particularly loved by her parents, she was eager to mend her relationship with them, and had agreed to bring the family over for a visit. Mosiah wasn’t thrilled by this, but he loved Valentina, and she could talk him into just about anything.

“Soon, baby.”

“If your parents say anything mean to you, we’re leaving.” Mosiah had the day off work, and had spent it cleaning the duplex. He’d recently dyed his hair: black as opposed to his usual red. Scooping Viola up from the stroller, he began to change her into the outfit Valentina had picked out.

She sighed. “Babe, you said you’d be nice.”

He had a lot more patience with the children than she did. “Yeah, I’ll be nice - if they’re nice.” Valentina knew what her parents were like. She couldn’t expect a person to sit back and let them treat her badly: especially not someone like her husband, who treated most people the same way they treated his family. “Anyway - “ After finishing dressing Viola, Mosiah held out his phone, “Saphira sent me the link to this Facebook page. She set it up to get help finding Jude.”

The girls were noisy, but they were playing together without fighting. Maia hadn’t adjusted to the idea of a younger sibling, and she often acted out for her father’s attention. Valentina, who had been combing her hair, snatched the phone. “Why do we need to find Jude?” She’d never met the man in person. No sensible person would want to.

“Because he has Adam.” Mosiah hadn’t been very invested in what was happening. He spoke to his sister once or twice a week, but seemed to have better things to do than put effort into figuring out the abduction. Valentina knew he’d never been close with his siblings growing up. She knew that after Mosiah ran away, he lost touch with most of them.

The social media page was filled with posts from strangers, who claimed they had seen Sebastian once or twice, or who claimed they’d been victimized by him. “Are we sure? He could have been taken by anybody, right?” Valentina knew the basics. She wished to know more.

It was nearing lunchtime. There was a large pit of dread in Valentina’s stomach. She’d been told that Sebastian had been arrested and taken into custody, but no one knew what had become of Jude. According to the police, it was certain that Sebastian was responsible for all of the deaths, and it was certain he had acted alone - because although Jude appeared in Orion’s security videos, it couldn’t be proven that he was involved. Even Valentina knew this was a cop-out. Law enforcement had made an arrest, and so they were no longer investigating. Valentina believed Jude had gone on the run, that perhaps he’d left the province so as not to be found. He seemed to have the ability to track Orion’s children, although no one really knew how or why. Mosiah took the phone back, responding to a message from a friend. “I’m sure. Zeb saw him the night of the abduction.”

There was a lot of effort that needed to be put in to leave the house with children. Esther was a chatterbox, telling the same stories over and over. Maia procrastinated on putting her shoes on. Viola couldn’t do anything herself. “Well, where was he going?” Impatient, she fastened Maia’s shoes, and slapped hats onto the girls’ heads.

It was mid September, and Valentina hated the cold. Fastening Viola into her seat, Mosiah glanced at her. “If we knew, we wouldn’t need social media to help.” She was on edge, sitting restlessly in the front of the truck, uncertain about meeting with her parents. Esmeralda, who still lived at home, had been the one to talk Valentina into visiting, and it hadn’t been easy. It was likely her father still saw her as a little girl who needed to be protected. This would surely make for some drama between the men. Valentina hated drama. Mosiah got a thrill out of it.

Recently, Maia started preschool. Valentina believed it was important for young children to learn how to socialise and how to get along with other children. That summer, Mosiah had set the four-year-old down to explain, in words suitable for a toddler, the concept of body autonomy. As a boy who had never had this growing up, Mosiah was determined to ensure his daughters knew the importance of consent.

Valentina’s mother always cooked for her guests. She always had, since her daughters were young. This was where Valentina had learned how to be a hostess to houseguests. Her parents lived in the same home they’d lived in since their marriage: a small home adorned with Christian symbols and artwork. They were a religious couple who said prayers before each meal and attended church twice a week. Valentina hadn’t stepped foot inside a church since her early teenage years.

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“Hi, Mamá.”

Paloma had just scrubbed the house. She did this each time before having company. Waving Valentina inside, Paloma looked for a long time at each of her granddaughters. She knew nothing of Viola. She knew nothing of Valentina’s pregnancy complications, or her scary birth experience, or Viola’s disability. She said nothing to Mosiah, but looked at her daughter with a wounded look. “You didn’t tell me you had another daughter.”

At Paloma’s house, there was no English allowed. Valentina had gotten in trouble many times as a teenager for speaking English at home. Even after moving to Canada, Paloma insisted their culture and language remain alive in the home. Maia stood behind her father, shy around people she didn’t know. “This is Viola.” Picking up the bulky car seat, Valentina stepped inside the house. “She just turned one.”

On the wall inside the front door, Paloma had hung a large print of the Last Supper. Esmeralda sat in the living room, smiling half-heartedly at her sister, looking up halfway from the book she read. Maia followed her mother, sitting shyly on her lap in the living room. “Hija,” said Paloma, sitting on the couch next to Valentina. “I’m hurt that you never reached out to me about Viola.” Communication was a two-way street. Since Valentina left home, her parents hadn’t reached out either.

Esther sat on the floor, rarely shy around strangers. Paloma cast her a suspicious look. “Who’s this?”

Mosiah played with the girls. He was annoyed, already, but he was rather easy to annoy. “Mamá, that’s Mosiah’s sister. We’re her legal guardians now.”

It was important to be communicative. In order for any type of relationship to work, all parties needed to put in the effort. Maybe when she was younger, Valentina believed it was up to her. She’d learned over the years that if a person truly wanted to be a part of her life - family or otherwise - they would put the effort in. It was important that Valentina brought her family around, even if it was uncomfortable. It was important her parents see she was a good mother, and she’d made something of herself. She wasn’t sure why this was important to her. Perhaps, she just wanted to be told, just once, that the people who had raised her were proud of her.

Valentina’s mother was a woman who liked to gossip. She spoke to Esmeralda in hushed tones, a sour look on her face. “He’s still dressing like that! It’s time to grow up! He’s a father now!” Paloma’s biggest issue with her son-in-law was his religion - but Mosiah wasn’t really religious at all. The way Paloma saw it, he walked around with a burning cross on his forehead.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor with the girls, Mosiah focused on the game they were playing: something made up, which had the kids giggling and feeling at home. “You know I can speak Spanish, right?” Valentina’s mother looked shocked by this. She’d assumed, maybe, that Valentina was made to speak only English at home, or that she’d decided to leave her Colombian roots behind. The truth was, although Mosiah hadn’t known a word of Spanish when they met, he was a fast learner when he cared about the subject. “Anyway -” he stood, kissing Valentina, scooping Viola up so that she giggled loudly. “I’m taking the girls to the park.”

Valentina’s daughters loved their father. Anybody could figure this out just by paying attention. Despite her family’s less-than-warm feelings toward him, Valentina always knew she’d made the right decision with her marriage. Maybe he wasn’t always the perfect parent - but nobody ever was. When the door shut, Esmeralda frowned. “Now I feel kind of bad for being so mean to him. He’s a really good dad.”

“Obviously.” The religious artifacts around the home put Valentina on edge. “That’s why I keep having his babies.” She’d displeased her father with this comment. Five years ago, this would have bothered her. “He takes care of us.”

It had been three years since Valentina’s elopement. Paloma, who had insisted the marriage wouldn’t last a year, had loosened up slightly since Valentina’s arrival. “What’s wrong with Viola? One year old and can’t even crawl - you should be working on milestones with her.”

What’s wrong with your baby?

Valentina was tired of this question. It was usually asked by complete strangers - and she understood when it came from a young child. Most of the time, it didn’t. She was always more polite than Mosiah when answering this question. “She was born with spina bifida, Mamá. She has paralysis in her legs. We’re getting her a wheelchair soon.” Everyone acted as though a disabled child was the end of the world, like it was a death sentence for their parents and families. Viola had limitations, but so did everybody else. If Viola wasn’t treated any differently than any other child, she’d grow into herself and learn to be confident, even with her disability.

Paloma frowned, exchanging a look with her husband. Valentina’s father was a man of few words, especially around those with which he wasn’t comfortable. “You didn’t take care of yourself during your pregnancy? You didn’t take enough vitamins?” After Viola’s birth, Valentina had been informed by a nurse that folate deficiency played a role in the development of spina bifida. Maybe it was her fault, after all. Maybe if she’d taken more vitamins, or ate healthier foods, or gone for more check-ups, Viola would have been healthy. Her mother stared at her, waiting for Valentina to speak. “Hija, your dad and I don’t think you’re responsible enough to be a mother. You sit here, letting your husband take the children to the park on his own, and you don’t take care of yourself during pregnancies-”

“Don’t talk to her like that.”

Mosiah, who stood quietly in the hallway with the girls, had snuck up on them. He spoke in English out of spite, refusing to be told what to do. “Valentina, we’re leaving. Get your shoes.” The pit in her stomach felt like acid, and tasted the same. She’d heard it enough times: she’d spent enough times lying awake, feeling guilt or shame or sadness. Normally, she’d argue about being told what to do. Today, she was in a fragile enough mood to do what she was told.

“I know it’s my fault Viola was born this way. I should have gone to the doctor more and taken more vitamins.”

“Cariña, listen to me. It’s nothing because of you. Sometimes things just go wrong.”

Valentina sat quietly in the truck. There was so much grief that came with strained familial relationships. She’d always been her parents’ princesa, a girl who could do no wrong. If she hadn’t gotten pregnant, if she hadn’t gotten married, she still would be. She felt cold and emotional, wanting to go home.

“Why do you let her speak to you like that?”

After buckling the girls into their seats, Mosiah started the truck. Marrying him had meant choosing between her family and a boy, and it had brought such a fallout. “She’s my mother. I can’t just not have a relationship with her.” Paloma had brought her family across the world for better opportunities for her children. She hadn’t spoken the language, and had struggled to work multiple jobs to support the family. Valentina knew her mother had struggled. She knew the woman spent nights awake worrying about her daughters, and worked far too many hours at jobs that didn’t appreciate her, and enrolled her daughters into the best schools in the best neighbourhoods. Valentina had repaid her by going against her wishes and breaking her mother’s heart.

“Sure you can.” Mosiah, who usually drove with a hand on her leg, kept both hands on the steering wheel. “I haven’t had a relationship with my mother in six years.”

“That’s different. Your mother’s dead.” She felt defensive. Growing up was hard. Growing apart from the people you loved was harder.