Paloma tells me that her brother drowned himself, one of her cousins hanged himself, and another one threw himself off a tall building in Bogotá. She wonders: If she had stayed in Colombia, would she have followed suit? She acknowledges this thought with contempt. “What they did was cowardly,” she says. “My entire family is weak. I’m not weak like them. I’d rather be miserable here than end up in a cemetery in Colombia. I’m here, and I may be crying, but at least I’m not dead.”
