For a while, all we can hear is the city and the sound of our own breathing. But then I hear sniffling coming from Sophie’s side of the bed.

I have nothing left to say that will comfort her, so I just listen to her cry, feeling more helpless than I’ve ever felt in my life.

After what feels like hours, Sophie falls asleep next to me, and I start to wish that I could get some sleep myself. Once or twice, I almost doze off, but then I snap back awake, and I’m hit by a brand-new wave of grief as everything that happened earlier starts replaying in my mind.

At some point, the sky outside my window begins to turn lighter. My mind starts feeling foggy with lack of sleep, and I take a deep breath, hoping I’ll be able to at least get some real rest before my alarm goes off.

When I close my eyes, my mind is filled with images of a woman. She’s pretty, with long black hair and big eyes, and she looks just like my mom. I never met my abuela in person, so it’s easy to imagine her as the woman from Ma’s old photographs. Even though we would Skype with her every now and then, in my mind she never aged. I’ve always liked to think of her as that young woman with deep eyes and a shy smile.

Suddenly, I hear her voice—or is it my mom’s? They sound so similar that I can’t tell the difference, but I do know these are my grandmother’s words—one of her many old sayings, which Ma has repeated to us since we were little: Si es para ti, ni aunque te quites. Si no es para ti, ni aunque te pongas, which loosely translates to, If something is meant for you, it’ll come even if you try to avoid it. If it’s not meant for you, it won’t come even if you’re waiting for it. Of course, it sounds better in Spanish. Almost everything does. But I start to wonder if that is true—if this was always meant to happen, if there was no way we could’ve prevented it. I wonder if there’s anything we could’ve done to save my parents.