I have no recollection of my mother the years before I left the United States at the age of three. I only remember parts of the flight to Madrid and entering what would be my home for the next couple of decades. My grandmother and grandfather greeted us, and I can still hear my grandmother shout “¡Dios mio!” when she saw my father, my sister and me at her doorstep. My parents had split up and my father held custody. I was too young to know that back then.
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