........
Nea
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I freeze, my heart pounding in my chest and before my voice can even whisper, I see the same shocked and confused expression on my mother's face as we both look at the young man in front of us. He repeats himself, his voice breaking ever so slightly, “My name is Tristán Villatoro. My father was Giorgio Villatoro; soy tu hermano,” he says he’s my brother, and the word ‘brother’ hangs in the air, heavy and fraught with emotion while I can’t seem to form a coherent thought.
Tristán extends his hand towards me, and I can see the hope in his eyes while I stand there overwhelmed as feelings and emotions from the past come crashing back at me. My mother told me that his mother was pregnant when my father moved her into our home and kicked us out, and looking at him, sh
