Family

Yesterday was like most weekends — I went to visit my nino and nina, the place that has become routine comfort for me. This time was different, though. My nephew had a birthday party there, so the house was fuller than usual. Cousins I don’t see often showed up, and for a while, I actually enjoyed myself. It felt good to laugh, to talk, to feel connected.

But even in moments like that, there’s always a shadow. Some family was there — the same ones who never called, never texted, never bothered when my father passed away. They were nowhere to be found when grief hollowed out our lives, when we needed even a sliver of care. When my father was alive, they didn’t care about us. And now, suddenly, they want to act close, like blood alone is enough to erase all the silence.

I even met an uncle for the first time. A man tied to me by name and blood, but nothing else. He didn’t even offer condolences. Not a word about my father. It was like the loss of him — the man who shaped me, who carried so much weight for this family — meant nothing. It left me cold, standing there in the middle of a celebration, realizing how fragile family ties can be.

They say blood is thicker than water, but sometimes that doesn’t mean anything at all. Blood can run cold, indifferent, absent. Sometimes strangers care more than the ones who share your last name. Yesterday reminded me of that — that love and loyalty can’t be forced, not even by blood.

Still, I tried to focus on my nephew, on his laughter, on the way the cousins filled the room with life. Those small moments are what I carry with me. The rest, I let fall away like ash.