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“Hijita, hay cosas que no puedes saber, que todavía no comprendes. Yo estoy para saberlas por ti, para protegerte. Eres lo que más quiero en el mundo.” —Mario Vargas Llosa, “La fiesta del chivo” I often feel like, growing up, I had three sets of parents. Three separate pairs of loving arms I could turn to whenever I felt sad and needed a pick me up. Three separate households to go to celebrate the holidays. Three, three, three. Under this thrice present family tree of love, I

“Todos tenemos nombres oficiales y apodos, que son como secretos entre familia.” —Esmeralda Santiago, “Cuando era puertorriqueña” “ Ma-ma-ma ,” I imagine my maternal grandmother Virginia, or Mamama to me, enunciating her chosen nickname to little me. Baby me, to be exact. This is Mamama’s favorite story: When I was baby, before I could even walk, let alone talk, she would crouch down next to my crib and slowly pronounce the nickname she wanted her three grandchildren to call

“Un libro abierto es un cerebro que habla; cerrado, un amigo que espera; olvidado, un alma que perdona; destruido, un corazón que llora.” —Mario Vargas Llosa, “La fiesta del chivo” My parents are the authors of their own love story. That sounds incredibly redundant, I know. Common sense tells us that every couple pens a story of their own. No two couples are the same. No two love stories are the same. Every love is unique; every love is its own. But my parents’ love story is