Whenever we grab something from the bodega, Pa writes down exactly what we took in a big book he has inside the office. I thought about doing that before we left the store earlier—just grabbing necessary supplies and writing them down. The problem is, I’ve never really known what happens after things get written in the book. Does Pa pay for them at the end of the month? Does he just take them out of the store’s earnings? In the end, I decided not to mess with the system, but now I wish I had.

I close the fridge and open the cabinets instead, to find a box of macaroni and cheese that Ma must’ve been saving for an emergency. She always says how this type of food doesn’t have the nutrients that two growing children need, but even she can’t deny that it’s convenient to have at least one box in the kitchen. And today, it feels like a lifesaver.

I fill a pot with water and set it over the stove with shaking hands. I’m just starting to realize how much I’ll have to do now that Ma and Pa are gone. We may still have food in the kitchen, and some clean clothes, and the apartment is still in decent shape, but pretty soon it’ll be up to me to take care of all those things. I’ll have to stock the fridge, and do our laundry, and clean the apartment, on top of everything else I already have to do. How am I gonna find the time for all that? How will I manage to pay for food and rent?

My legs start feeling weak all of a sudden, but I keep my feet firmly planted in front of the stove as the water comes to a boil. What are we going to do?

“Mac and cheese?” Sophie squeals when she walks into the kitchen a few minutes later.

I turn toward her and smile. At least it isn’t too hard to make Sophie happy. She finds joy in the smallest of things—the squirrels in Washington Square Park, petting the downstairs neighbor’s cat, sneaking a glance at Pasiones every night while Ma and I are watching it. Tonight, it’s macaroni and cheese.

We carry our bowls to the couch and sit down to eat. Even though this hardly compares to the Mexican food Ma makes every night, we’re both hungrier than we’d like to admit. At first, I eat quickly, paying little attention to anything but the grumbling in my stomach, but then I look up from my bowl and realize something. There are tears sliding down Sophie’s face, and her hand is shaking so much that she’s having a hard time bringing her fork to her mouth.