Young Writers Society

If I could describe the bond between my mother and me, I would say that it was unbreakable... Impenetrable. It was the same beautiful bond that kept our mother-daughter relationship going strong for as long as I could remember.
She was extremely special to me, like I was to her. Like the older sister you look up to as a role model or the lifelong friend you've known since that first day in preschool, I could rely on my mother for love, guidance, support, and occasionally, keeping juicy secrets.

My mother was, after all, only fourteen years older than me.

It had taken me a long while to discover where I came from. And frankly, I was disturbed to find out that I had apparently been conceived one late January afternoon in my father's bedroom. The place could've been decked out in Michael Jordan posters and NBA memorabilia, as I could reluctantly imagine.

They'd been living in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and my mother was only thirteen. She was merely a little girl when her innocence was stolen by my 17 year old father, just two days before her 14th birthday. Surely I could never imagine the fear she must've felt once she discovered the shocking outcome of her foregoing "questionable" actions. The girl who had literally just grown out of her training bra was pregnant.

To her own surprise, and quite frankly mine, she reluctantly broke the news to my father, yet he stuck by her side through all nine months. And on a cold, stormy evening on September 15, 1994, I was born in Alta Vista Regional hospital in San Miguel County, New Mexico. Maternity ward 2, Room 281.

My mother had decided to christen me Raquél María Consuela, after her great-grandmother. I was a relatively tiny baby even though she'd carried me full-term. Three pounds, two ounces I had been born.

When I was a little girl, she would always read me a Puerto Rican Folklórico, a folktale whenever she’d tuck me in at bedtime. She would also tell me stories of when I was in her womb. She used to blast Spanish lullabies through the speakers whenever she was left home alone. As I recalled, I always used to listen in awe as she would mention how upset the neighbors became, and how they'd angrily beat their broomsticks against the front door.

Just by simply ignoring their vicious threats and warnings, she would crank the volume higher. The loud, chaotic world
around her quickly faded, and her own blissful thoughts would consume every meaningless fragment of its reality. I would imagine my teenage mother, sitting on the carpeted floor of an empty apartment, and singing softly to me while caressing her growing stomach. Her angelic-like croons sadly fell in deaf ears, but only until she had passed the third trimester of her pregnancy.

She said I used to tumble and squirm beneath her warm, protective touch. "My little acrobat," she'd say with a reflective grin. Perhaps even before I'd been brought into this world I longed to be in the arms of an Angel.

My little heart would always swell with pride whenever my mother told me about the day I was born. As she held me on her lap, gently bouncing me on her knee, I'd lay my head against her breast, listening with great fascination while I slowly dozed. I could hear her heartbeat quicken with excitement at the acknowledgement of that special day. It was the most amazing and unforgettable experience she'd ever had, and the proudest day of her young life, she said. Once she laid eyes on me, it was like love at first sight. While embracing my body with a gentle squeeze, she would say that she could’ve sworn that I was a lost angel.

In the stillness of the room, a melodious laugh lingered on her lips as she admitted the moment she cried once our eyes met. My eyes were Emerald green, just like hers. I remembered how special I'd feel whenever she told me, "Your Bisabuela Consuela sent you to me from heaven—el cielo. Eres mi milagrita (you are my little miracle)."

Around that time my mother was probably about 18 or 19 years old, and I was four.

After she had securely tucked me into the plush bedcovers, I would always feel a warm sense of comfort and security as she'd give me that magical smile; her emerald orbs twinkling with adoration. She'd then encase my body in the tightest hug and smother my face with relentless kisses, rendering me into a fit of squeals.

"I love you, Chiquita. I'll see you in the morning," my mother would whisper while reaching over to shut off the lamp by my bedside.

Before she would get up to leave, I'd seize her hand and pull her down so that our eyes remained leveled.
"Yo también te amo Mami. Buenas noches," I'd whisper back, unable to find her dazzling white smile in the darkness.

She'd lean down to kiss me one last time, while gently combing her fingers through my soft curls.

"Good night."

Once she had disappeared from the room, a great surge of sadness and fear would consume my thoughts. The only source of comfort I had left was the bright blue glow which emitted from my Cinderella night light. Without my mother, I felt vulnerable and small. In the darkness, the shadowed faces of my stuffed animals and Barbie dolls would distort into monsters before my eyes, and they'd grow bigger and taller until they towered hundreds of feet above my shrinking bed. At least that was what it seemed like to me.

Stricken with panic, I would call for my mother, my tiny quivering voice calling as loud as it could.

"Mami! Mami!" I'd wail until she would rush into my room.

It seemed as though once the door would swing open, those hideous creatures evaporated into thin air and returned to their normal lifeless selves.

A veil of black tresses swayed above my face as she'd reach down to take me into her room. Without uttering a sound, my mother would gather me in her arms and whisk me out of the room that had been closing in around me.

"Shh, calm down, mijita. You're safe with me, Angel," she’d soothe me, holding my shaking body against her breast.

She'd let me soak the crook of her shoulder with my tears, while rocking me back and forth on her bed. My father usually worked at night, so we would always have the bed to ourselves.

My tiny fists clung to her silk nightgown, and strands of her hair remained tangled between my fingers. I feared that she would vanish if I ever dared to let go, so I always held on tight with all the strength I had. After a few quiet minutes with my mother my gasping breaths would ease, and my tears dried up. She'd then pull the soft duvet over our bodies before shutting off the lights. My little eyes would dart around the darkness, searching for those horrible creatures that had lurked in my bedroom moments before. But they'd never return to haunt my dreams. Because I knew that while I was sleeping peacefully, she would be there, waiting to protect me. So I'd snuggle as close as I could to my Wonder Woman, and the heat radiating from her skin would lull me to sleep.

As I grew older, I had become extremely shy. In grade school, I would cry whenever my mother left me to go to work. I was severely attached to her. The other brave kids often stood and watched as I clung to her leg, afraid to let go. The situation would just worsen when the teachers would step in to help. I never wanted their "help". I remembered screaming even louder as their cold hands would clamp onto my little wrists, carefully separating me from my mother. Once my cries eventually reduced to quiet hiccups, she would tilt my chin up so that my tearful eyes would meet her softened ones.

"There's nothing to be afraid of. Mami will be right here to pick you up in a few hours, okay?" my mother would whisper her promise while using the soft pad of her thumb to wipe away my tears.

I'd start to feel better when she flashed me a warm smile of reassurance before giving me the longest goodbye kiss.

"Te amo, mija," she'd say before spinning around on her heels, making her long curls swing behind her back.

I couldn't help a wary smile as she looked back to send me one last wave. I'd also wave, feeling that familiar pang of vulnerability as the heavy door would slam behind her.

I felt safe knowing that my teachers would keep a close eye on me throughout the day. But whenever I was left alone with the other kids, I felt like an outsider. They'd taunt me and laugh at me on a daily basis because I didn't know much English, and also because of where my mother was from.

When you lived in an area where most of the population was of Mexican ethnicity, finding other Puerto Ricans who shared the same culture as you was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. And my mother and I were the only needles.

To make matters worse, I was very small—the size of a three-year-old compared to a regular five-year-old. They'd call me shrimp, shorty, baby, whatever cruel name their young minds could conjure up. By the time I had reached six, I'd begun to hate the nickname which my mother called me by: Chiquita, which literally meant "little girl". In my case, I was extremely tiny.

I never wanted to participate in any games or activities during school. I'd sit in the corner playing by myself, tears of shame threatening to fall once my ears caught the callous snickers of my tormentors. And once the teachers would motion for me to join them, all eyes were on me. I never dared to look up, fearing that I'd find the smug grins that were plastered onto their little faces, and the hidden amusement in their eyes.

"Raquél, it's okay. Come and join us," the teacher would say carefully, as if I knew only a small percent of English.

But in truth, I'd begun to learn plenty of English. On the weekends, my mother would to teach me how to speak in English to help me communicate better in school. Although in school, all that learning went to waste. Most of the time, I pretended not to know English because of my heavy accent.

I knew that the taunting would only grow worse. So whenever a teacher called me, I'd let my tearful eyes fall to the ragdoll I held in my hands. Its painted face and red-yarn locks would blur as more tears arose. Then with a quick shake of my head, a tear fell, allowing my vision to clear. I'd then sniffle quietly so that my classmates could not hear, and watch the teardrop as it melted into the doll's plush face. My face grew hot whenever I could sense their cold brown and blue orbs burning through my flesh. I quickly spun around on the foam mat I'd been stuck on for the past few hours, turning my back to them. And only then did I let the tears stream down my cheeks.

Eventually, the four long hours would have elapsed, and all the kids would rush to collect their art projects they completed during the day. I could breathe a sigh of relief once they ran to their awaiting parents in the hallway.

However, I remained in the same corner, hesitant to join the group. My teachers, as usual, would try to coax me to come out to meet my mother.

One of the teachers, a Mexican woman, usually said to me in her unfamiliar Spanish, "Don't you want to see your Mama? She's right outside waiting for you."

I often shook my head in protest, and I would jerk my arm away whenever they tried to touch me. Although my tears had dried up moments ago, I knew not to let them fall again... until I heard the melodic voice of my savior. The moment my mother rushed through those heavy double-doors, I'd steal a glance over my shoulder, and burst into tears once our eyes met.

"Oh, baby," she'd say just above a whisper.

I would immediately lock her in my arms when she scooped me off the floor. At that point I felt safe knowing that she'd be there to save me from the place that caused me so much misery. My mother would apologize for being late for the hundredth time while I burrowed my scarlet face into her chest.

Once my teachers managed to persuade her to stay for a "quick" talk, I knew they had nothing worth listening to. My mother was never in the mood for their unsound observations. She must've suspected that there was a specific reason regarding my behavior in school. She'd usually ask if they had been keeping a close eye on me, and they responded with a quick nod; but even I knew that their claims were not entirely true. My teachers never kept a close eye on me; in fact they'd never even acknowledge my presence. Otherwise, they would've figured out the culprit, or culprits who were responsible for my behavior.

After a moment of listening to them drone on and on about the possibility of holding me back a grade, to my relief, she would cut the borderline offensive conversation short.

"And again, I'm extremely sorry for being late. I promise you it won't happen again," she would say pleasantly, even though I could feel her body temperature rising.

I was aware of the significant age difference between my mother and the other parents. She was the only teenaged mother whose child attended the preschool. Both teachers and parents would imperceptibly belittle her, whisper about her behind her back, or talk to her as if she were a naïve child. In truth my mother’s childhood had abruptly ended once I came into the picture, and she was more mature than any of them combined.

At that point she would feel so hot my skin almost burned against hers. Her blood was literally boiling. What seemed like a friendly gaze frequently turned out to be a suppressed glare. She was on a short fuse and I'd know it. And once my mother bid a quick goodbye, she'd turn and march through the door in a huff.

That was when I started to become very afraid of my mother. She'd carry me past the lingering group of students. When I'd muster up the courage to look into their faces, they would send me silent daggers and sneer behind my mother's back. That was when I'd start to suck on my thumb, which provided an alternative source of comfort for me. While my mother stormed through the parking lot, I'd remain silent, fearing that I would anger her even more. The door swung open with one swift tug at its handle, before she'd gently place me in my booster seat. Those uncomfortable cross-straps she adjusted across my chest were never tolerable. I never liked sitting in that unbearable seat as a child, but I'd never complain. I flinched once the door would slam shut.

"'She needs to be held back'... Bullshit," she'd mutter angrily to herself, while peeling out of the empty parking lot. "Those putas just wasted 15 minutes of my life!"

At such a young age I never knew what those words meant, but I always knew that they were bad. I knew that my mother never meant to resort to nasty swears; however I would be furious myself if someone told me that my child wasn't good enough. By the time she had spat just about every swear in the English and Spanish language, the fresh tears would start to prick my eyes. This was an intimidating and unfamiliar side of my mother I had never encountered before. I used to think the cause of her anger was from something I had done, because I often thought that I wasn't good enough for her.

My guilty stare would fall to the carpeted floor as her eyes flickered upwards to watch me through the rearview mirror. She'd then let out an indecisive sigh and apologize.

"I'm sorry, Angel. Mami was just upset and... I-I couldn't help it. How about we split an ice cream sundae?"

My face would break into a wide grin and I'd eagerly shake my head.

Truthfully, I never wanted her to spend her much needed and hard-earned money, because I knew how she struggled to keep a steady job at 19. But I could see in her eyes that she wanted nothing more in the world than to make me happy. Without a word I nodded slowly, flashing the slightest smile of reassurance; just so she'd know that I was okay.

"Alright, babydoll."

That was when I would start to feel a little better; whenever my mother glanced back and gave me that warm smile. Then I would know that she could never be mad at me no matter what. I knew that she loved me with all her heart. I knew I never had to worry about my close relationship with my mother, because we understood each other's flaws.

But up until I'd reached puberty, my relationship with my father, however, had begun with minor technicalities, and evolved into clashing differences. That was when I had learned to become slightly more independent, and severely defiant.

Andre had changed so much, but I never knew why. I'd often wonder what had happened to the loving, doting father who would take care of my mother and I whenever we used to get sick. He'd wink at me and call me "Babycakes", give me hugs and kisses when I was frightened, or take me out for ice cream after dinner. I couldn't deny that I missed my old father.

Once I learned that screaming at him to get what I wanted made it easier to avoid punishment from my mother, I was invincible... for a while. Eventually my mother didn't like that fact that I had been undermining his authority, and often allowed him to spank me for my defiance. I never hated her for it, but I sure hated him. Because I was smarter than most kids my age, switching tactics was my only way to get out of trouble with her. I'd throw tantrums, scream, cry; throw up. I made sure that she felt guilty for having my father discipline me.

Another strategy I used was lying and accusing him of things he never did. In the end, I felt that there would be some sort of reward waiting for me. Annoying my father to get him to hit me and claiming abuse never had the most rewarding outcome. He never wanted to hit me, and I knew that it hurt him, but I was out for revenge. After what had happened that day my mother was out shopping, he never touched me again.

I was eight at the time, and Dre had just received news about his Aunt Mary's death at the hospital. She had lung cancer. I knew that he was upset, but I figured he'd get over it. As he miserably ate down that delicious box of chocolate-chip cookies, I wanted them, and I was going to get them one way or the other.

Without considering the possibly dire consequences, my marching feet led me towards my father, who sat hunched over on the couch watching television. He was unusually quiet.

"Papito, gimme those cookies!" I demanded, unafraid.

He sighed and turned away from me.

"Not now, Raquél," he muttered miserably.

"But I want them now!" I screeched.

The cookies were held out of my grip, and I leaped and clawed after them as if I were a hungry cub. He was starting to get ticked off, but I kept egging him on. Switching tactics, I threw myself onto the floor in a wild outburst. I screamed so loud I thought I would go deaf. My father grabbed me by my arm, lifting me from the ground with ease.

He said in a firm voice, "Raquél-María, cut the crap right now! You know your Momma won't put up with this."

I simply brushed off the scolding and folded my arms. "You can't tell me what to do. I don't like you. You're not Mamita. I want Mami! Where's Mami?"

"She'll be seeing me in jail if you don't stop right now," he murmured.

His threats were nothing to worry about. He just said that to scare me, and I knew it. But at that moment, I should have been scared.

"Nooo!" I shrieked as he tried to put me in the corner, blocking my kicks with his stronger legs.

"RAQUÉL!" he then bellowed, which made me flinch. My brain was rattling because of the way he shook me harshly.

"Do you want me to hit you, huh? Now stop this shit!" I dared to look into his eyes, and glared at him.

"Do it. You don't like me anyway. I hate you, and I wish I had a better Daddy!" I spoke blindly.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

For a moment, it had taken me a while to register what had happened, but then my senses came alive again as my face collided with the hard floor. My pained screams filled the air as I clutched my stinging cheek. I withdrew my hand and was horrified to find that my fingers were stained with blood. Andre was more horrified than me once he realized what he had done. In a complete panic, my father scooped me up from the floor before I could scramble away from him, and he rushed me to the bathroom. His reaction was like nothing I had ever seen before. He looked scared, as if he knew that he was going to be sent to jail for what he had done.

The first-aid kit clumsily tumbled out of his hands with a disturbing clatter.

"Oh, God. Oh, God," he kept repeating. "Not today."

I calmly remained seated on the toilet—still in tears; but I was calm unlike my father. A quiet, disgusted groan was the only sound I made once he began to decorate my face with that gross antibiotic cream, before applying a thick wad of gauze to my face.

It seemed as though my father was down on his luck that day, because once my pregnant mother came waddling into that doorway, all hell broke loose.

"Oh my God, Raquél! What happened?" she gasped, rushing to my side.

Andre didn't answer. He sat frozen in place, red-handed, like a thief who had been caught in the act.

"Mami," I said in a tiny voice, tugging at her skirt to get her attention.

Her gaze never left my guilty father as she lifted me into her arms.

"Andre. What happened?" she tried again, firmly.

I could tell that her patience was wearing thin just by the way my unborn sister began to kick in distress.

"I... Th-there was an accident. But please, don't get mad at me," he pleaded his case.

My mother suddenly became a judge, contemplating whether to decide her verdict as innocent and let him go, or sentence him for life. After a moment of silence, she banged her gravel.

"We'll see."

I was placed back onto the floor, and I watched my parents flock towards their bedroom.

"Quédate ahí (stay there), Niñita," my mother told me before shutting the door. A ball of dust rolled across the floor once they were gone.

Not a moment had passed before the muted voices started to build into an ear-shattering climax. My mother ranted in an unstoppable flourish of Spanish and English while my dad kept reminding her: "Gabi, the baby."

Their argument continued well into the evening, and it didn't come to a standstill until… The home was quiet. Way too quiet. I'd gotten off the floor to see what was going on. Once I was close enough to the door, I heard sniffling. It was my mother… perhaps.

I couldn't really tell, so I pushed my way through the door, and standing there comforting the sobbing parent, was my mother! I couldn't believe it. Seeing my father cry, his face buried in her stomach, his tears soaking her blouse; it astounded me.

"It's okay, Andre. I miss her too… I'm hurting too," she whispered.

My mother was close to tears of her own as she continued to rock him back and forth—the same way she did to me when I was upset.

My forehead wrinkled in perplexity. Who were my parents missing? Why were they crying?

"You'll get to say goodbye tomorrow. Before they put her to rest."

Then, it dawned on me. My Aunt Mary! Her funeral was the next day, which explained why my father was crying.

That afternoon I was out for revenge for what he had done to me, but I only realized that a box of cookies were not as important as the bond Andre and I shared. Our relationship grew strained after my aunt's funeral. I recalled the moment my parents and I stood above the burial site along with the rest of my family/mourners. I looked up at them, wanting to avoid the sight of my Great Aunt being lowered into the earth.

My grieving parents were locked in each other's arms. Their foreheads were pressed together, and their eyes were closed, as if they were trying to connect to Aunt Mary's soul and feel her angelic presence within the group of family. Every tear was like a raindrop as they fell around me in all directions: my hair, my clothes; the dirt. My father was like a different person that morning.

The moment I'd started to resent him was when I tried to hold his hand. And he wouldn't let me.

My mother stayed back to offer her condolences to Rita, my grandmother, when I spotted him aimlessly walking ahead.

"Papi, can we have McDonald's for lunch? I'll give you my Happy Meal toy," I offered, obviously too cheerfully as I hoped to lighten his mood.

My palm slipped into his empty one, but there was no grip. He let go of my hand and continued on walking.

"I don't want to hold your hand. Go away," he muttered, brushing past me.

I stood in the middle of that cemetery, completely devastated. My father, who used to read bedtime stories to me and give me piggy-back rides when I was sad—most importantly, the father who used to spoil me with endless hugs, kisses and "I love you's", gave me the cold shoulder. What he said to me punched a hole in my heart. He broke my heart. And for the first time in my life, I actually hated my father.

That same resentment and hatred that I kept pent up for all these years was what finally caused me to crack the other night. But later, I was glad that we finally got to patch up the relationship that we should've held onto since Aunt Mary's death. It made me appreciate him even more.



One morning I awoke to find that my father had made an "appearance" the night before, and needless to say, I was angry. Mami had kicked him out of the house some days ago, and then promised me that he would never return. I was not at all surprised. She was never good at keeping promises, which always made me feel like she let me down in a way.
I watched my mom and dad with repulsion as they emerged from their bedroom, obviously giddy after their late night session. She came out giggling like a little girl when he pulled her back to whisper in her ear. My dreams were interrupted by the constant thumping I heard against my wall.

The baby in my arms began to kick, eager to have his divided pancakes. I couldn't help an eye roll. What was my mother's problem? Letting someone slip their hands under your clothes was not romantic.

"What do you think you're doing?" I demanded, resting my hands onto my hips once I noticed him pulling a pancake skillet from the cabinet.

He didn't pause, but kept his back turned while he brought out the ingredients. "I'm cooking for your Momma… Is it a bad thing if I want to cook for my family?"

"Yes it is!"

My mother was already pleading for me to stop, but I was too stubborn to listen. My dad was stupid enough to ask me why.

"Because you don't belong here!" I fired back.

It didn't take long for a full blown argument to start. But then I said something that stunned even me.

"I HATE YOU! I hate that you're my father!" I screamed it with all the resentment I had kept ever since I was a little girl.

Even my father was not angry. Just stunned. No one was as angry as my mother.

She scared me whenever she yelled, but I never told her, because I was scared!

"What did you say? I'm so sick of you! I can never have any peace in this house because you two are always bickering over the stupidest things!"

I continued to make my point by saying that he was ruining our lives. But I meant to say my life. My eyes began to burn with tears as I looked up at my family.

"You don't understand… how I feel. Especially Papi. At least the girls have a father who loves them. I don't anymore. I used to have a father who loved me," I replied tearfully.

It was the truth. I never felt loved by my father after his aunt died. The connection between us was just cut off.
I felt humiliated for crying in front of my sisters, and before my mother could try to talk to me, I slid my chair backwards and got up.

"No, no it's nothing," I told her after she asked me what I was talking about.

She wasn't there six years ago to hear what Andre had told me. I walked out of the room, passing up yet another opportunity to talk about my feelings.

This was a problem I had ever since I was little. I never liked to talk about my feelings because I always felt that I would be judged. Mami always noticed, but she knew I hated to talk. Keeping all these feelings to myself was awful I felt like a robot because I could never fully enjoy myself or be fully happy. I hated it.

I stayed cooped up in my bedroom for the rest of the day, venting the day's events in my diary. I never thought that it would come in handy, but Mami had bought it for me so that I could keep record of what was going on once I began to attend high school. I never showed it to her.

So far, there was never anything positive written in that diary. Most pages I'd written showcased the torture and ridicule I had to endure for most of my high school life. I hated everything about that school. I hated my classes, my teachers, lunchtime, especially the kids. I hated my tormentors, Maya and Carlos with all my heart.
Writing in my diary offered me some kind of comfort. But never total comfort.

"Raquél, honey? Is it okay if I come in?"

I sighed once I heard Andre's voice outside my door. Perhaps my mother had threatened him into talking to me.
I decided that it was time to let go of my past and focus on patching up this broken relationship with my father. This was going to be hard, expressing my feelings.

"Come in," I said.

I was surprised to see a smile on his face as he slid into my room. It didn't look as forced as I'd secretly expected.

"Hey, Babycakes," he began, calling me by my old nickname. I tried my best efforts to resist a grin.

The awkwardness between us was evident as he sat beside me on the bed, and placed his hand across my thigh.

"How are you? You okay?"

I didn't answer, but kept my eyes on my diary. This was going to take some getting used to.

"You know, I would never forget the day you were born. Your mother was too exhausted to think about anything, but me… I cried when I saw you. You were the most beautiful little thing."

No reply. He decided to cut to the chase.

"Tell me, baby. Why are you upset?" he asked, gently tucking a curl behind my ear. I had to tell him. I couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Don't you remember what happened at Aunt Mary's funeral?"

My father shook his head to my dismay. "No, what happened?"

He cleared his throat, hoping to hide the pain he still felt from his aunt's death.

It upset me to know that he didn't remember what he said to me. I broke down in tears, and he quickly wrapped his arms around me.

"What is it, Raquél? Tell me."

"You don't remember? When you told me that you didn't want to hold my hand? When you told me to go away? That really hurt me, Daddy… It really did," I finally confessed through my tears.

"Oh-no," he said to himself as he buried his head between his palms, realizing his mistake. "Well, you know that I never meant it like that. I was just upset that day, and I just said it out of grief."

"But I never forgot it, Papi. I kept dwelling on the fact that you didn't love me anymore, and I hated you because of it."

"No, don't ever say that. I do love you, Raquél. With all my heart," he said, pulling me into an embrace.

"I'll always be there when you need me, okay?"

"I love you too, Papi. I'm sorry."

My mother caught us hugging and got quite emotional herself. We welcomed her in our embrace. It was like we were a family again, and from then on, I knew that I would never have to worry about my relationship with my father anymore.

I was finally going to be happy again.

Or so I hoped.

Okie first off I loved this very very much haha. The only thing I can honestly think wrong is this part:

Just by simply ignoring their vicious threats and warnings, she would crank the volume higher. The loud, chaotic world

around her quickly faded, and her own blissful thoughts would consume every meaningless fragment of its reality. I would imagine my teenage mother, sitting on the carpeted floor of an empty apartment, and singing softly to me while caressing her growing stomach. Her angelic-like croons sadly fell in deaf ears, but only until she had passed the third trimester of her pregnancy.

I don't think you meant to separate the paragraph. Other than that I honestly couldn't find a thing that stood out. I loved this and I can't wait to read more if you're adding more. Keep up the good work! ^^
Soulkana<3

Thank you for pointing out the space out... I think it was a typo but thank goodness you noticed. Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!!

First impression: Wow. Long.

But once I started reading, I was hooked. You might want to consider breaking this up into parts so that it's more manageable for readers. Anything over 2,000 words is a bit much to take in at once on a screen.

"Your Bisabuela Consuela sent you to me from heaven—el cielo. Eres mi milagrita (you are my little miracle)."

I think the translation would be more effective and impactful if you had it as it's own paragraph, like so:

"Your Bisabuela Consuela sent you to me from heaven—el cielo. Eres mi milagrita."

"You are my little miracle."

And that's pretty much it. The reconciliation scene struck me as being perhaps a little too fast, considering how many years of resentment had built up, but it wasn't too unbelievable since, all throughout the chapter, it was obvious that Raquél missed having a good relationship with her father.

I do wonder at the future. Ominous last sentence is ominous.

In any case, overall, this is just excellent. Words are not enough to describe how much I enjoyed this chapter.