Page 32 of Mending Hearts
My sister. Accountant. Spreadsheet wizard. The most organized person I’ve ever met.
Instead of working herself into the ground the way our parents did, I paid for her college. Every tuition bill. Every book. Every stupid hidden fee. Honestly, it’s the best money I’ve ever spent.
Now she does my accounts, and I trust her more than any manager or financial advisor who’s ever shaken my hand.
“You’re distracted,” she says, finally glancing at me.
“I’m chopping garlic,” I argue.
“You’re murdering garlic,” she corrects. “And thinking too hard.”
She knows me too well.
I shrug and slide the chopped pieces into a bowl. “Just tired.”
She hums in a way that says she doesn’t believe that’s the whole story, but she lets it go. For now.
The kitchen smells like onions and cumin and the kind of food our mamá makes when she’s trying to feed ten people on a budget. Comfort food. Food that sticks to your ribs.
Mamá and Papá are still working, even though they don’t have to. They’re built that way. Work is survival and dignity, and proof you belong. Though a few years ago, they finally let me help.
I bought them a house. Not huge, not flashy, just new and in a safe neighborhood. No mold in the walls. No landlord who could decide overnight they had to leave.
Mamá cried when she saw the kitchen. Papá walked through every room like he was checking for problems that weren’t there.
They still clean houses. But now it’s their own company. I helped with the startup costs, paperwork, branding. Rosa did the books. They hired several women from church. Women who needed work and needed someone to give them a chance.
They support immigrants quietly. Always have. Extra shifts passed along. Food dropped off. Advice whispered.
We take care of our own.
I think about that as Rosa hands me a spoon. “Taste,” she orders.
I do. It’s perfect.
“Show-off,” I tell her.
She smiles, pleased.
We move around each other easily, setting the table, pulling plates from cupboards. Domestic in a way that makes something in my chest ache. This is what life is supposed to feel like. Not tour buses and green rooms and pretending you don’t wake up at three in the morning with someone’s name stuck in your throat.
Rosa sets down her glass and leans against the counter. “I finished reviewing the Medina Trust paperwork,” she says casually.
My hand stills. “Okay,” I say, aiming for neutral.
She watches my face. Accountant eyes. Nothing gets past her. “You’re sure about the long-term commitment?”
“Yes.”
“It’s… a lot,” she says gently. “The ten million up front was already generous. Add in the five million annually for ten years, that’s not pocket change, even for you.”
“I know.”
She tilts her head. “You don’t usually move that fast on philanthropy without a board meeting and a week of overthinking.”
I snort. “I don’t have a board.”
“You know what I mean.”
