I examined the shirt in my hands again and again. I traced the sleeves, the hem, and the large number 30 printed across the front—the jersey number of Joaquin’s favorite NBA player.
I froze, staring blankly at the fabric, completely paralyzed. Reality slammed back into me when a hand violently snatched the shirt from my grip. I turned to see Michelle glaring at me, her face utterly devoid of warmth.
"Why do you have this?" she snapped, clearly annoyed. I didn't miss the sharp roll of her eyes as she marched over to her white built-in wardrobe, opened the door, and tossed the shirt inside like a piece of trash.
"That's... that's Joaquin's shirt, isn't it?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my desperate attempts to stay composed.
"What did you just say? Joaquin's?" She crossed her arms
