Rationally, of course, I understood she wasn’t making progress. She was too weak for chemo. Her body wasn’t producing enough urine. Her digestive system was stopping. Her abdomen bloated day by day. The doctors came in every night and pulled us aside to add a new organ to the list of compromised body parts.

Intestines.

Uterus.

Stomach lining.

Right kidney.

Lungs.

The disease spread quickly, rushing higher and higher. And I knew what came after her lungs. I knew she wasn’t recovering, but I didn’t want to believe it. Not with my soul. Because, like Grandma, I believe in signs, too. I believe in curses. But I believe in happy endings above all. The type you see in telenovelas, when characters recover from the worst tragedies, stronger and reborn.

But Grandma’s sign about me, it would never be true. Because I was not meant for Salt. I was never meant for Salt. And we both knew it. Just like we knew Grandma wasn’t making a miraculous recovery.

Maybe signs aren’t real, after all...

And if they aren’t, I guess I’m truly not meant for my own home. Where do I even belong?

When I crouch down to place a bouquet of sunflowers on her grave, I notice there are other sunflowers there already, maybe a day or two old. Someone who knew these were her favorite flowers must have left them. Maybe Dona Selma?

I trace Grandma’s name on the tombstone with my fingertip.

“Ever since you left us, we’ve been in serious trouble,” I say, fighting back tears. “Grandma, what did Mom mean? You told me you had dreamt about me at Salt.”

I hate that she’s not here to defend herself. To tell me that I’m wrong. That it’s a misunderstanding.

To tell me that—

That she loves me. That it was just a bad dream. And she didn’t leave us.

“I don’t know why I’m here in this cemetery, like I could find you and convince you to come home and fix everything. As if you’d left because of an argument. As if this is something I could remedy with an apology.” I gasp for air. “What did I do wrong? I’m sorry. Come back. Please, come back.”

I cry for a long time before I’m faced with the truth.

Grandma isn’t coming home.

She’s gone.

And there’s nothing I can do to bring her back, no matter how long I avoid saying goodbye.

A terrible wave of resentment washes over me, like Mom and Grandma must be punishing me for something. For not being a good daughter. For not sharing their talent for cooking. For being my family’s weakest link. I was always doomed to be alone, wasn’t I? I never belonged with them.