I found the picture when I was looking for a glue stick for Tristan. We were making a WELCOME HOME banner for Mom. It was Cristina’s idea to surprise her. That was when Mom first started traveling so much. I didn’t see the point in welcoming her home; she was just going to leave again. Tristan was five years old and super excited about gluing glitter on the banner. I was digging around the drawer in the kitchen among the takeout menus and old rubber bands when I found the photo. Mom had showed it to me a couple times when I was little, whenever I asked about who my father was. The story she told me every time was that he lived in Colombia, that he was too busy and important for children. I hadn’t seen the photo since we first moved to the big Santa Cruz house. On the back of the picture, it said Frank Gomez in Mom’s neat printing. I flipped it over again and looked at the face, and then I sneaked it into the pocket of my sweatshirt. If Mom noticed it was missing, she never said anything. Not that she was ever around to notice. Even when she’s not traveling for work—which is most of the time lately—she’s at her fancy office in the city. I kept the photo in my desk drawer hidden under my pencil box.

At least I thought it was hidden until last Christmas, when my nosy little brother uncovered the picture while trying to find where we’d hidden his presents. “What’s this?” he asked, studying the face of Frank Gómez.

“Um,” I stalled. I wasn’t sure what to tell him. And then I decided to tell him the truth because that’s all I ever want. The truth. “That’s my dad.”

Tristan stared at me, mouth sagging open. “What about Daddy?”

“He’s your dad, Tristan, not mine. We have different dads.”

“Then…” He paused. “Are you still my sister?”

“Of course. I’ll always be Tristan Miller’s big sister. And you’re my brother.”

“How come you never go to your dad’s house for the weekend like I do?”

“Oh, he lives too far away,” I said.

“You can come with me,” Tristan offered. “I can share Daddy with you.”