Flat nose. That’s what Chatita’s name meant. And it was apt; she had a flat, wide nose. Chatita was loved by everyone. She was a little Mexican woman living in Huntington Park in Los Angeles. She always wore her sunglasses since she was sensitive to bright light, and her brown friar outfit was her uniform for life. Her passing  was one of the biggest heartbreaks I’ve ever experienced. 

It’s two hours prior to my 10th grade exhibition for my Humanities and Chemistry class. I have to print a flyer for my project. My mom, sister, and I have to make the treacherous journey to the UPS store, a 15 minute walk. The air’s sticky and warm but the forecast says otherwise. It’s supposed to be a gloomy, cold day. On the way back home, I ask my mom if we can stop for ice cream. 

We’re close to the gate of our apartment complex, and my mom’s phone starts to ring. It’s my uncle.

“Hello?” High pitched yelling swirls through the air. My mom’s face drops. She gasps  in all the air around us. Something was wrong. She starts crying, almost screaming. Her face turns crimson, it scrunches up.

 “What's wrong?” I ask her.  A blanket of shock and fear wraps me up. A fear I never want to feel again. I look over to my sister and her blue-stained mouth droops into a frown. She's afraid too. 

“My grandma died!”

Tears crowd and fill my eyes. I can’t see anything. I feel a headache slowly creep its way from the back of my head to the crown.  A hole in my stomach forms as the hot air flows through it. The whole world slowly comes to a stop. The fear that turned into frustration turns into confusion. I’m so confused. How did she die? I can’t think of anything else. Walking into our home is a blur, but I keep crying, like it's all I know how to do. The silent crying I've been suppressing quickly turns into shrieks. I don’t care who hears or what they assume happened. 

 My mom throws herself onto the couch. She crouches into a child’s pose and continues to sob. My mother, who in my eyes is a strong woman, turns into a weak child. I crash onto my bed, trying to remember Chatita’s face but I  can’t remember it anymore. All my memories of her seemed to disappear just as swiftly as she did. 

My dad comes home some time later. I hear him comforting my mom as she continues to cope with our recent  loss of Chatita. I expect him to comfort me as well but what he does next, sometimes hurts more than her actual death. Previously, we had been arguing for some time. Even though we were not talking, he couldn't step over his pride and ego, come into my room, and give me a hug. That’s all I ever wanted from him. A hug. I didn’t need an apology for what we were arguing about, I didn’t need a “It’ll be okay”. All I wanted was a hug. That day,  all I got from him was a gaze into my room.

 I still ended up going to exhibition. I couldn’t not go. I never told anyone what happened, I just pretended to be okay. Somewhere on my teacher Oscar’s phone, there is a captured photo of me smiling for the camera. I didn’t want anyone to see my sad demeanor because if they did, they would ask me “Is everything okay?” And I knew that if that question was asked of me, I would fall apart all over again.