Home is Where the Heart is - Pablo Gavi

Prologue: A Generous Offer

The day after my graduation my parents told me.

"You're uncle called the other day," my mother says as I stand at the counter making breakfast.

I put my toast in the toaster. "How is he?" I ask politely. My mother's brother calls at least once a month to check up on our family, making sure we're taken care of. He barely ever visits anymore though. It's understandable, he lives in Spain and works as the head coach for the Barcelona futbol team. He's very busy and last I heard he was doing pretty well for himself.

"He sounds well," my mother says, pulling up a chair at the table. "Misses us."

I turn around to see her hands clasped over the table. "Misses you," I correct her. My mom grew up in Spain with him but decided to go to University in Canada. She intended to go back but she met my dad. Then they had me and moving back became out of the question. Still, when I was a child we visited Spain frequently and my tio visited us as well. But lately, since I've grown up, we haven't been as close as we once were.

My dad comes into the kitchen, joining us. He pulls out a chair and sits without a word.

"He misses you as well cariño," my mother says softly. "Actually–" She looks over at my dad and he nods.

"Sit," he tells me, gesturing to the open chair.

Hesitantly, I do as I'm told. "What's going on?" I ask.

My mother sighs. "Your uncle has very generosity offered to pay your University tuition."

My eyebrows shoot up. "What?" My uncle is rich, I know that, and doesn't have a family of his own. I'm the closest thing he had to a daughter.

"Last summer," my dad starts to explain, "when we visited him you mentioned wanting to go to law school, well you know we've always been uncertain on whether we could pay for your schoolin–"

"So you asked him for money?" I exclaim. My mother has always been against accepting charity, and taught me to be the same way.

"No," my mother says. "He offered."

"So that makes it justifiable? I told you I would find a way to pay for it." My toast pops and I get up to retrieve it.

"Isla," my mother pleads. I ignore her and pull my toast out of the toaster. The heat burns my fingers and I jerk back. When I try to pull it out again I do so more cautiously.

"Isla Sierra Hernandez," my father raises his voice. I turn around to look at them. One of his arms is on the back of my mother's chair, the other resting over her clasped hands. "Sit down."

I listen. My father rarely uses my full name; my last name is my mother's and he resents it a little. They hadn't been married yet when I was born and weren't sure if they ever would be. When they did get married and she hyphenated her name I decided not to change mine. I liked the way it sounded without the added Collins—my dad's last name. On top of that, I felt more connected to my Spanish culture this way, knowing one day—after I graduated law school and make some money—I'll go back to where I came from.

"This money's not for free," my mother continues, "there are conditions."

"Like what?" I asked. "Paying him back?" If he was loaning me the money until I made enough back to repay the debit I would be happy to take it, knowing it was an investment on his part.

"No," my mother says. "He'd like you to stay with him in Barcelona for the summer."

I put my fingers to my temple, resting my elbow on the table. I don't know what to say. This is my last summer before becoming an adult. "He wants me to spend my last summer away from my friends and family?" I ask, a hint of disbelief in my tone.