“We accomplished what we set out to do. We found our father.”

Mercedes doesn’t say anything, but she smiles. Just half a smile, but a smile just the same.

When we reach my block, we pause across the street from the driveway. It’s like there’s a force field preventing us from going home. Like we’re in our own spaceship, hovering among the stars, not quite ready to head back to earth.

“You’re lucky,” Mercedes says, breaking the silence. “It’s a nice house.” We both stare at my house. My California, stepfamily house.

“But your house is gorgeous,” I protest. “This one is… well, small. For five of us.”

“But you have your family.”

I picture my mom making snacks for me and Lucas and Kenny after school, driving me to the store for school supplies, helping me bake zucchini bread. She’ll find a job eventually and then she won’t be around to do these mom things as much, but she would never be gone as much as Mercedes’s mom is gone. She would never leave me or the boys with a full-time nanny. My heart squeezes with the thought of what Mercedes is missing.

“You know, you can hang out at my house as much as you want,” I say. “You and your brother. Who knows? Maybe Tristan and Lucas will become best friends. We’re your family, too.”

She doesn’t look at me at first. And then, after a long silence, she says, “Cool.”

“Mattie!” someone yells. “Mercedes!”

Mom and Bob barrel through the red front door. “They’re here!” Bob yells into the house.

Francisco Gómez trips on the step as he rushes outside. I wonder if the little girls dressed in white from the picture on his phone ever run away. His eyebrows are scrunched but his mouth is slowly stretching into a smile. “Thank goodness! Qué alivio,” he says in his Colombian voice that’s both strange and familiar. “Mercedes! Matilde! Hijitas!” And we run across the street toward him. Toward everyone.

Lucas appears from around the back of the house and hurtles toward us. “Mattie!” He crashes into my arms and hugs me. It’s funny—I thought I had lost everything when I left Minnesota, but looking around, I can see how much I’ve gained. A half sister, a dad, a stepfather, and even a wild little stepbrother. I squeeze him back. And then he yells, “Basketball!”

The adults gathered around us laugh as he makes a beeline toward a ball forgotten under a purple-flowering shrub.

“Oh, you two,” my mom says, the air rushing out of her as if she’s been holding her breath. “Come in. And, Bob,” she says over her shoulder, “lock the front door so these girls don’t escape again.” Bob chuckles his stepdad-like laugh. “I’m only kind of kidding,” my mom says sternly.