I was separated from my younger sister, and when I finally turned around to see what life had left me, all that remained was an old, corroded warehouse my grandfather had once signed over in my name.
The day I turned eighteen, the system decided I was finished being protected.
There was no celebration.
No embrace.
Just a black plastic bag holding everything I owned… and a manila envelope that felt more like a bad joke than a future.
It was March, but in Toluca, March still has teeth.
The sky looked washed-out, like soap left too long in water, and the wind slipped through the torn soles of my sneakers with deliberate cruelty, as if it knew exactly where I was weakest.
I stood on the cracked concrete steps of San Gabriel Children’s Home—the place that had contained my entire universe since I was twelve.
When the door shut behind me, it didn’t slam.
