“You like to swing?” I finally asked her, not sure if she’d answer.

She looked over at me, and there was a tiny hint of light in her eyes that hadn’t been there moments before as she gave me a nod. I pushed myself back and start swinging, and she did the same. We spent the rest of recess on the swings together, not saying a word.

Each day that week played out the same. When I came out to recess, she’d already be on the swings just sitting there. Once I’d join her, we’d begin to swing.

On Friday, when recess ended and we had to go back to our classes, I stopped her and gave her a small smile. “Bye, Ladybug Girl. I’ll see you next week.”

For the first time all week, she smiled, and my chest filled with warmth and an intense happiness I’d never known existed.

From that moment on, I was hers.

After Marco’s death, I kept my mouth shut about what I’d seen. For a while, I didn’t say anything at all. Not a word. They attributed it to grief, and some of it was, but it was also the trauma of witnessing my brother’s death.

When Marco was killed, the story my parents told to the world was he had died in a mugging gone wrong. My mom explained that two masked men had attacked my dad while trying to steal money from him. She had lied, but I had no idea why and was too heartbroken to argue.

My mom and sisters cried—even Maria, and she never cried—but I couldn’t.

I was defective.

Instead, I withdrew into my art. I painted dark abstracts and broken people for hours on end.

While I painted, my mind would wander. I’d try to decide if I could have done anything differently to help. I debated why my mom and dad would lie and how my dad could fight like the action heroes on TV. I contemplated why my father would have left Marco behind.

The answers weren’t quick to come, but over time, I put the pieces together.

As I grew up, I watched my family with a critical eye. They never figured out I knew, but I did. I knew about everything. Every secret. Every lie. Our entire family tree was built on them. How do you learn to trust the people closest to you when they look you in the eyes and lie to your face?

Lie after lie.

Never truth.

The one place there was any honesty was in my studio. In my art.

That was where I found myself the day after my luncheon fiasco with my mother—allowing my emotions to bleed out onto the canvas. Sometimes, I had a specific image in mind when I began to paint, and sometimes, I started a painting without the slightest clue of where the brushes would take me.

Tonight was one of those nights.