“For the same reason you didn’t tell me,” she said simply. “You needed that part of yourself to be yours alone, until you were ready to share it.” I stared at her, processing this. “I thought everyone would be ashamed. Mamá is going to be so disappointed. Romance novels are—” “Joy,” Abuela interrupted firmly. “They are joy and hope and the promise that everyone deserves love. Even girls who look like us, who take up space, who have curves and opinions and don’t fit into little boxes.”
