Page 15 of Morena

I.

Every story has to start somewhere, and mine started right here, in Barcelona.

A city that always smelled of sea salt and diesel fumes.

I lived with my parents and younger sister in a cramped apartment on Montechata Street.

Dad was the only one working. We didn’t have much, but we had enough.

Enough to keep the lights on, enough to keep food on the table, enough to dream.

That summer, I took a job helping my mother’s childhood friend clean her house.

She paid me in cash, and every coin I tucked away felt like a step closer to something larger than these narrow streets.

I dreamed of finishing nursing school, of working in a hospital, maybe even traveling abroad one day to heal others.

But more than anything, I wanted out, to see Europe, to breathe in other cities, to live a life that didn’t feel so small.

Because here, I never blended in. I was different, and everyone saw it.

On our block, kids laughed at how my hair curled tighter than anyone else’s in the family, at how my skin was darker, how I didn’t quite belong on this street.

My sister never had to go through that. She was one of them.

One of the voices mocking me, one of the hands throwing rocks, one of the mouths spitting names that left bruises deep in my mind.

Words hurt. They cut, and the wounds scar.

They follow you with every step, burning fresh each time.

And when those words come from someone who shares your blood, they burn even deeper.

Family is not something we can choose; we are born into it.

But we can choose who we become. My sister never chose kindness. At sixteen, she chose cruelty.

I made my way to the house on Montechata Street, one of those old buildings that seemed tired and worn on the outside but held a quiet beauty within. For all its cracks and peeling paint, I loved being part of it, because inside those walls, I could pretend I belonged.

My mother’s friend’s name was Carmen. She once worked in a circus as a dancer, but she gave it up when she married a wealthy man.

He died only two years later and left her a widow.

She had loved him so deeply that even after death, he remained her only one.

The way she spoke of him made me believe in fairytales, in those stories of happily ever after that stretch beyond the grave.

When I entered her house, she was already dressed in her favorite red dress, her lips painted the same shade, and she was ready to step out to the farmers’ market. She always brought me daisies from there, and they were my favorite flowers.

“Dona Carmen,” I called as I opened the door. Amante Bandido by Miguel Bosé spilled through the room, and she was dancing, waving a fan brush in her hand.

“Hola, 1 mi vida ,“ she sang, spinning toward me. “You look gorgeous today.”

“Gracias,” I muttered, cheeks warming. “Going to the market already?”

“Sí,” she said, blinking dramatically and pausing in front of me. “But first, Miguel.” She chuckled with a sigh. “?Qué hermoso es!” 2

I giggled as I shut the door. “Dona Carmen!”

3 “Ay, querida, a woman can dream, can’t she?” She laughed and then moved toward the kitchen, holding out a fresh bouquet of daisies. “One day, I’ll take you with me to Italy, and we’ll find you a handsome Italian man.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not ready to be in love.”

“I know.” She pressed the daisies into my hands, her voice softening. Then she cupped my chin, and her eyes grew glassy with tears as she whispered, “But you deserve all the love in the world, mi vida. ”

Some said she could see the future, and somehow she was always gentle with me, looking at me with tears in her eyes as if she already knew my end would be painful.

She sat down and wrapped her hands around a cup of coffee, rolling it between her palms. Then she pointed to two thin lines on her palm, smacked her lips, and said, “You see this? That means my life is boring.”

I laughed. “We both know that is not true.”

She rose and pressed her hand to my shoulder. A sudden knock came at the door, and she hurried to answer it.

It was Lucía, her oldest friend. They had worked together in Italy back in 1960, and now their houses sat next to one another. Lucía spread her arms and pulled Carmen towards her, cupping her jaw as she looked at her.

“If I did not love you, I would curse you for being late,” Lucía said, laughing into her face.

“Hola, Dona Lucía,” I said.

“Hola, Morena,” she replied. “I swear you are getting more beautiful by the day.”

I smiled and bit my lip. When another woman told you you were beautiful, it felt different, somehow more genuine than when a man said it.

They waved at me as they closed the door, and I turned back to begin cleaning. The same song still played on repeat, and I climbed the stairs toward the bedrooms.

There were only two rooms on the second floor, Carmen’s and a guest room, and each had its own bathroom.

I went into Carmen’s first since she rarely had visitors.

The first thing I did was open the window on the right.

From where I stood, I saw a man in his mid-twenties at the neighboring window, smoking a cigarette.

When he noticed me, he nodded, but I did not nod back.

As he flicked the cigarette butt toward the grass, I called out, “Hey, pendejo , you could burn us all down.”

“Tranquila 4 , morena, it was already out,” he said with a wink.

I rolled my eyes and turned away.

“What’s your name, 5 Bonita ?“ he shouted after me.

“Morena,” I answered, glancing back with a forced smile.

He hummed, then chuckled. “You don’t want to ask for mine?”

“I’m not interested.”

“Well, I’ll tell you anyway,” he laughed. “Francisco.” He gave a small bow, then leaned against the window. “Francisco… pero mis amigos me llaman Paco.” 6

I rolled my eyes again. “Who said I wanted to be your friend?”

“Then more than a friend,” he said, biting his lip.

“Keep dreaming, Francisco.” I slammed the window shut and walked away.

I caught my reflection in Carmen’s mirror. Somehow, my hips always looked wider there than they did anywhere else. I wore my favorite blue Levi’s and a black shirt with two cherries printed over the chest. After a glance, I turned toward the bed, shook out the sheets, and started making it.

On my way to the bathroom, a knock echoed through the house.

I rushed downstairs and pulled open the front door.

A man in his late twenties stood there. He had beautiful blue eyes, a white shirt tucked into white trousers, and for a moment, he seemed at a loss for words, but I was the one at a loss with his eyes.

“Hi,” I said, raising my hand.

It took him a moment before he asked, “Is my mother here?”

“Your mother is…?” I prompted with a smile.

“Lucia,” he said quickly, clearing his throat. “Carmen is her friend.”

“Oh. They went to the farmer’s market.”

From behind him, Francisco called out, “Leave the poor girl alone, Carlos, she’ll eat you alive!” He threw me another wink.

I rolled my eyes. “I hope you don’t know him.”

“Unfortunately, that’s my brother,” Carlos said with a shrug. “But hey, family, right? We don’t get to choose them.”

I laughed. “I know.”

“Anyway,” he said, smiling, “nice to meet you.”

I hadn’t known Lucia had two sons, and even less that they lived just next door to Carmen. Boys like them only ever meant trouble. And trouble was the last thing I needed. So even though I caught myself biting my lip as I replayed, I shook it off and went back upstairs to finish cleaning.

Not even thirty minutes had passed before Carmen came home with a fresh bouquet of daisies in her arms. I hurried down the stairs; I had already finished half the day’s work and sat at the kitchen table.

It was time for one of her coffees. Every time I drank it, I would flip the cup upside down and beg her to read my future.

She never told me the dark things, only the good, and sometimes I wondered if she was lying just to keep me hopeful.

“Morena!” she called, but when she spotted me, she jumped. “?Dios mío, me asustas, loca!”

I laughed. “I’m ready.”

She arched her brow. The kettle hissed, and soon the rich smell of coffee filled the air. She poured it into the white cups and pressed it down on a small plate that was already in front of me at the table. I didn’t wait. I lifted mine too quickly, scalding my tongue, but kept drinking anyway.

“You’ll give yourself a heart attack,” she teased, pressing her hand over mine to lower the cup. “Patience.”

“How was the market?” I asked.

“Boring as usual,” she chuckled, before narrowing her eyes. “And here? I heard you met Lucía’s boys.”

I bit my lip, then rolled my eyes. “One of them is fine. The other one,” I growled, “makes my blood boil.”

She threw her head back with a laugh. “So you met Francisco.”

“Yeah.” I groaned. “Why do I hate him already?”

Her smile faltered. She pressed her lips into a thin line. “It is a very thin line between love and hate, you know.”

“Still.” I drained the last of my cup, then flipped it upside down, letting the coffee grounds slide onto the small plate she had set out for me.

Without a word, she rose and poured me a glass of water. “Drink, 7 loca.”

I listened to her, watching as she studied my cup. Her face grew heavy, and before I could speak, she reached across the table and took my chin in her hand.

“Promise me you’ll stay away from those boys.”

“Why?” I raised a brow.

“Because nothing good will come from it,” she whispered. “Only pain, Morena. Only pain.” Her eyes glistened before she turned away, wrapping her arms around me tightly.

“I was cursed with a talent to see. But you,” her voice broke, “you were cursed with the talent to be blind. Whatever happens, remember this: you are capable of so much more than you allow yourself to be. ”

Her words stayed with me like smoke in the room. The rest of the afternoon, she locked herself away and cried, and when I finished my work, I slipped out quietly and walked home.

1. my life

2. How handsome he is.

3. Ah, dear

4. calm down

5. pretty girl

6. Francisco… but my friends call me Paco.

7. crazy