“She’s the bravest person I know,” Connor says, voice warm and sure.
Tears free-fall into my lap as I shake my head. “I’m not brave at all.” My words land so quiet I think only Connor hears them.
“Gretch, youarebrave. You’ve never changed who you are forother people. You’ve never given pieces of yourself away just because everyone else is doing it. You left small town Illinois and moved to New York City without knowing a single soul. You worked your way through college.”
I swipe the tears running down my face, embarrassed at this whole display in front of so many people.
“And when people have let you down.” He swallows and my eyes lift to his. “When they disappoint you. When they hurt you.” He pauses, squeezing my hand. “You forgive them. Even when they don’t deserve it. When others choose to stay angry and hold grudges, you forgive.”
I turn back to the scrapbook. My fingers drift over the first name I was ever given:Yanaha.
“Yougot yourself here,” Connor continues. “You stepped out and you did the big, scary thing. You went looking for something not knowing if you’d find it. But you did find it, Gretch. Perhaps it was about thirty people more than you planned on, but…”
Amidst the sound of sniffles, light laughter bubbles up in tiny bursts across the patio and I can’t help but laugh, too. Because isn’t that the truth and, also, thank God I’m not the only one crying.
Connor finishes, voice certain; “Youarethe bravest person I know.”
“Whew, mija,” Grandma Rosa cuts through the emotion as she makes a dramatic show of wiping her eyes dry. “If you don’t marry that boy.”
“Right?” Cheyenne and several of the aunts say in unison, all dabbing away tears in one way or another.
I snicker into my chest, thankful for the lighthearted turn of conversation. When I look at Connor, his whole face twinkles as if to sayyou heard them. I mouth a quick“thank you”before turning to the first page in the scrapbook.
The inside front cover is a copy of the framed picture I saw yesterday of Cheyenne holding me as a newborn. On the right is a piece of notebook paper taped to the scrapbook page where Cheyenne has written out my birth story.
It will take hours to absorb every page of a book this large. For now, I flip through them, taking in as much as I can.
Two pages worth of pictures of Cheyenne and Miguel as teenagers, her pregnant belly on full display. This must have been those last few weeks of her pregnancy when she lived in Phoenix with Winona.
Yearly letters from Cheyenne and Miguel, addressed toYanahaon my birthday.
Pictures of them as young adults, attending college in Flagstaff together. Their love story documented in photos and hand-written captions.
Wedding pictures. I never could have imagined that while I was a seven-year-old girl, doing the things seven-year-old girls do, my biological parents were a handful of states away, making vows to love each other forever.
Photos and letters telling the stories of the pregnancies and births of each of my siblings.
I flip forward a few more pages and find another birthday letter from my parents, except this time it’s accompanied by a child’s drawing.
“As early as the kids could understand who you are, we started having them make something for you on your birthday,” Miguel explains.
Tears pool in my eyes as I take in MJ’s rainbow drawing, complete with a sun and some flowers. His five-year-old hand scribbling out the wordsi lub uon my fifteenth birthday.
I look up at MJ who grins shyly at me and I give him a wink before turning my attention back to the book.
More pages, more drawings, letters and pictures from my siblings on my birthday. Even letters from Antonio and Rosa some years.
But it’s not just birthday entries that fill these pages.
Dance recitals. Football games. School pictures. Vacations. Christmases. All of it personalized with captions written in the margins to highlight memorable details, significant dates and times. Varied handwriting makes it clear that many hands went intocreating and filling each page. A documentation of their entire lives, it’s everything I’ve missed. Except I didn’t miss anything at all, because they’ve held me with them through all of it. Every moment captured and recorded for the sake of this book that is, literally, twenty-two years in the making.
“I love it,” I choke out through tears.
Once everybody has criedand hugged as much as is humanly possible, Gustavo declares the party has resumed as he cranks the music back up.
Thankful for the time and space to breathe, I close myself in the bathroom for a few minutes to freshen up.
On my way back outside, the sound of movement in the kitchen has me detouring in that direction. I turn the corner and find Winona handwashing dishes at the sink.
