My mom cries a lot, too. She always cried on Christmas morning when it was just the two of us and she opened whatever present I made her—a lopsided bowl, a ragged pot holder. She cries at the end of sad movies and blows her nose really loudly. She used to cry at work because she hated her job. She cries when I sing “Over the Rainbow” to her.

But this kind of crying isn’t like any of that crying. The sound coming from Francisco Gómez isn’t sad and it’s not sobbing like a baby. But it’s also not tender like crying over music or puppies. The sound of his crying is something different. Something beyond sad or scared or hurt or angry. Francisco Gómez reaches out for us and before I know it, my father has his arms around both me and Mercedes. We’re a cluster of stars. All of us, together.

CHAPTER 38 Mercedes

The three of us are cramped in the small space of floor between the office door and the hammock. And I think, Now what? I didn’t think this far when I imagined looking for him. I glance at Mattie. I can tell by her face that she didn’t, either.

“Daughters of mine. Mis hijas,” Frank Gómez says. I was starting to wonder if he would ever let go of us and if he would ever stop crying.

“You know who we are?” Mattie asks.

He nods, wipes his face with his shirt.

“Of course.” He swallows. A few more tears drip down his face. I certainly did not imagine all the crying. “Look.” He shifts and reaches into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a worn leather wallet. The pocket for dollar bills is stuffed with little scraps of paper. He digs through the papers—sticky notes and receipts and ticket stubs—and pulls out two worn squares. Photos.

The first one is the same baby picture Mattie brought with her. I take this copy from his hands and flip it over. Querido Francisco – Our beautiful daughter. Matilde, just like you wanted.

“Which one?” he asks, looking back and forth between us.

Mattie snatches it from me. “That’s me.”

I wait for the second one. He holds it out. Me. My baby picture. I’m wearing a ridiculous pink dress with ruffled pink pants that cover my diapers. I’m chubby and—I have to admit—really cute. I flip it over. Mine just has my name and birthdate written in Mom’s block print. Nothing more. I hand it back to him. It’s obvious, I suppose, that the second photo is me. That I’m Mercedes.