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“When I was figuring out who I was,” Freddie continued, “when I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere, I read your books. All these characters who were different, who took up space, who found love anyway? It mattered, T. It helped.”

I stared at her, emotion tightening my throat. “Freddie?—”

“It’s true,” she insisted. “And I’m not the only one.

There’s this whole thread on FaceSpace about how your books helped people accept themselves.

Their bodies, their desires, their weird, messy hearts.

” She turned to our mother. “So yeah, maybe she’s not saving lives with a scalpel, Mamá, but she’s definitely saving them. ”

Mamá blinked rapidly, clearly thrown by this passionate defense.

Before she could respond, another voice joined the fray. “Are we having the ‘writing isn’t a real career’ conversation again?” Rosalind asked, appearing with impeccable timing and a glass of champagne already in hand. “Because I thought we exhausted that topic already.”

I turned to see my sister, immaculate in a structured dress that screamed ‘future lawyer’, regarding our little group with cool disdain .

“Rosalind,” Mamá said, visibly relieved by the interruption. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.”

“And miss watching everyone pretend that writing smut is something to celebrate?” Rosalind replied with a tight smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Flynn’s hand tightened on my waist, and I placed my own over it, silently asking him to let me handle this.

“Nice to see you too, Ros,” I said evenly. “Love the dress. Very ‘I’ll be billing you for this conversation.’”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Congratulations on your useless English degree, Tempest. I’m sure it’ll look lovely framed above your desk while you write about fictional people having fictional orgasms.”

“That’s enough,” Flynn said, his voice low but firm.

Rosalind’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh look, the football player speaks. Shouldn’t you be somewhere hitting your head against something?”

“Rosalind!” Mamá gasped.

“It’s fine,” Flynn said calmly. “I can hold my own. But I won’t stand here and let you insult the woman I love on her graduation day.”

The word ‘love’ hung in the air between us. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but hearing it so openly declared, in front of my family, sent a warm rush through me.

“How noble,” Rosalind sneered. “The jock defending his girlfriend’s honor. Very romance novel, Tempest. Did you script this scene yourself?”

“What is wrong with you?” Freddie demanded, stepping forward. “Why are you being such a?—”

“That’s quite enough,” came a commanding voice that cut through the tension like a knife.

Abuela strode toward us, resplendent in her fuchsia gown, a dangerous glint in her eye that stopped everyone mid-word.

Abuelo Leo walked beside her. In one hand, he held what looked like a weathered leather notebook, and in the other, an iPad.

“Mamá, Papá,” my mother began, her tone cautious. “This is a family matter that we can discuss privately?—”

“No, Luz,” Abuela cut her off, her voice ringing with authority. “No more private discussions. No more secrets. This family has had enough of both.”

She planted herself in the center of our small group, commanding attention the way she once commanded movie sets. Flynn’s hand found mine, and I gripped it tightly, sensing the storm about to break.

“First,” Abuela said, turning to my mother, “I have something for you, mi hija.”

She held out her hand and Abuelo set the tattered notebook in her palm with reverence. Mamá’s eyes widened with recognition, her hand automatically reaching for it before pulling back as if it might burn her.

“You kept it?” Mamá whispered, her composure cracking.

“Of course we did.” Abuela pressed the notebook into her hands. “Parents always keeps their daughter’s dreams, even when she forgets them.”

Mamá opened the cover with trembling fingers, revealing pages filled with flowing script, the ink faded but still legible.

“What is that?” Rosalind asked, peering over Mamá’s shoulder.

“This,” Abuela announced to all of us, “is your mother’s romance novel. Written when she was nineteen years old, full of passion and drama and love scenes that would make a telenovela writer blush.”

Mamá’s face flushed dark red. “Mamá, please?—”

“No, Luz. These children should know.” Abuela’s gaze swept over all of us. “Your mother once dreamed of being a writer too. Just like her Papá. She filled this notebook with stories of brave heroines who overcame all obstacles to find love. And she was good—incredibly good.”

I stared at my mother in shock. “Mamá? You wrote a book?”

“It was a childish phase,” Mamá said stiffly, though her fingers caressed the pages with obvious familiarity. “Nothing serious.”

“Nothing serious?” Abuela scoffed. “You had real talent.”

“And then Professor Collins told me it was trite, derivative, cliched trash,” Mamá shot back, a flash of old pain evident in her voice. “That no publisher would waste time on it. That it wasn’t respectable.”

“And you believed him,” Abuelo said softly. “You let a bitter old man kill your joy because you thought respectability was more important than happiness.”

The revelation hung in the air between us. Mamá stared down at the notebook, her expression unreadable.

“And now,” Abuela continued, her voice hardening as she turned to Rosalind, “you do the same to your daughters. You push them toward ‘respectable’ careers without asking what brings them joy.”

Mamá still clutched her old notebook, staring at it as if seeing a ghost from her past. Papá watched her with gentle understanding, while Abuela surveyed us all with the satisfaction of a general whose battle plan had succeeded.

Mamá let out a shaky breath and her gaze met mine. “I chose the path that seemed more certain. The most respectable... and perhaps I’ve been too determined to see my daughters make the same choice.”

The admission hung in the air between us, more powerful for its rarity. My mother was not a woman who acknowledged mistakes easily.

“I don’t want that for you,” she said, looking at each of us for a moment before continuing. “Any of you. I don’t want you waking up at fifty-five, wondering what might have been if you’d followed your heart instead of your head.”

Abuela raised the tablet she’d been holding. “Which brings me to the second matter. Rosalind, would you care to explain these emails?”

Rosalind’s face drained of color. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” Abuela’s eyebrow arched dangerously high. “Perhaps I should read them aloud then. This one to the editor of The Dracarys campus paper. ‘I have definitive proof that DSU student and KAT member Tempest Navarro is the trashy romance author Miranda Milan...’”

My heart stuttered in my chest. Hearing the literal confirmation of her betrayal felt like a physical blow.

“Rosalind?” Mamá’s voice was sharp with disbelief. “You did this?”

Rosalind lifted her chin, though her lips trembled. “ Someone had to. She was living a lie and making us all look bad.”

“It wasn’t your truth to expose,” Flynn said quietly, his arm tightening around my waist.

“You betrayed your sister,” Abuela continued, her words cutting.

I found my voice at last. “I deserved to come out as Miranda Milan on my own terms, when I was ready.”

“And when would that have been?” Rosalind challenged. “Another year? Five? Never? Better to come out now when we can mitigate the fall out.”

“At what cost?” Abuela demanded. “The trust of your family? The respect of your sisters?” She shook her head, disappointment radiating from her. “In this family, we protect each other. We do not betray each other for our own agenda.”

Rosalind stepped back as if she’d been physically slapped. “What’s done is done. I can’t take it back.”

“No, you cannot,” Abuela agreed coldly. “And now you must face consequences. I’ve already spoken to my friend Senator Organa,” Abuela continued, ignoring Mamá’s interruption. “I explained that, unfortunately, you would not be able to accept the summer internship position in her office.”

The color drained from Rosalind’s face. “What? No, you can’t—that internship is everything?—”

“Was everything,” Abuela corrected. “The senator was quite understanding when I explained that you would not be returning to law school.”

“What? Abuela, why?” Rosalind whispered, her voice breaking .

Abuela replied firmly. “As the matriarch of this family, I am the keeper of our values. You betrayed your sister, and your family. That is not who we are, Rosalind. It is time you rethink your life choices and your place in this family.”

Rosalind looked to Mamá for support, but found only confusion and disappointment. She turned to Papá, who had remained silent throughout the confrontation, but he simply shook his head.

“I’ve worked so hard,” Rosalind said, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. “A law degree and that internship was my future.”

“Was it?” Abuela asked, her voice softening slightly. “Or was it the future your mother imagined for you?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Rosalind said, wiping angrily at her tears.

“I think you do.” Abuela stepped closer, taking Rosalind’s hands in hers. “I’ve watched you, mi nieta. I’ve seen how you flinch when people call you ‘future senator.’”

Rosalind stiffened, but Abuela’s gaze was penetrating. “You don’t want to be a lawyer any more than Tempest wanted to. But instead of having the courage to choose your own path, you lashed out at your sister for finding hers.”

Rosalind’s composure crumbled completely, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“I hate law school,” she whispered, the confession torn from somewhere deep inside her. “I’ve always hated it. But it’s what was expected. What would make everyone proud.”

Mamá made a small, pained sound, clutching the notebook of her own abandoned writing to her chest.