“And you must be Ana María,” he murmured as he turned to her, his warm hands enfolding hers. “Your sister Gabriela is the spitting image of your mother as a girl, but you have her spirit. Puedo ver a mi hermana en tus ojos.” Ana María thought she may have smiled, but she couldn’t be sure. All the air had been siphoned from her lungs, leaving a yawning emptiness inside of her. She adored her mother, but was she truly like her? Always acquiescing? Always striving to make others happy at the expense of her own happiness? Always enduring heartbr— “Let us leave this foul place,” Tío Arturo said,
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