No matter how hard I’ve tried, I’ve never been able to let go of the burden that comes with my name. My loneliness has a way of following me everywhere I go. I used to try to run away from it—I even tried to convince people to call me Marisol, but the nickname didn’t stick, so I had to try with Sol instead. It was then, once people stopped calling me solitude and started calling me sun, that I almost fooled myself into believing I would become a different person.

Now, even though almost everyone calls me Sol, most of the time I feel like a Soledad. That is especially true today, while I sit at the breakfast table next to Papi, breaking off bits from a piece of pan dulce.

Sitting here in silence has become part of our daily routine, much like getting up at the crack of dawn, or rushing out the door before the clock strikes five. This is one of the few moments of peace I get to have each day, so I usually try to make the most of it. I like to breathe in the stillness of the silence, taste the sweetness of the bread, feel the warmth of my hot chocolate as it makes its way down my throat.

Today, however, there’s something about the silence that’s making me deeply uneasy. The bread tastes like nothing, and my hot chocolate may as well be cold, for the lack of comfort it’s bringing me. Since I opened my eyes this morning, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about all the ways everything’s about to change. I haven’t been able to shake off the realization that today will be our last day of normality, and come Monday, life will be a lot different.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Papi staring at me. He does this sometimes. It’s as if he’s trying to read me, as if he’s trying to figure out what’s going through my mind, even though it’s been a long time since either of us has spoken during breakfast.

“You don’t have to do it,” he says suddenly. His voice is loud, as though it came out stronger than he’d intended it to—as though he had been holding back what he wanted to say for a while, until it finally burst out of him in a near-shout.

“You could stay,” Papi adds, and this time, his voice comes out weak. In the muted glow of the kitchen lights, it’s impossible to ignore that there’s a lot more gray in his black hair and mustache than there used to be, or that the lines on his face are now deeper, as if they’ve been carved into his skin.