Confetti, Cousins, and the Man I Punched

Five days in the Gómez house felt like being tossed into an industrial washing machine: spinning, loud, warm, and there was always someone shoving food at you even after you’d just said you were full.

On day one, Mamá had already rearranged my entire schedule like I was back in eleventh grade and needed supervision so I wouldn’t run off and get married in secret.

On day two, I gave up and let myself be dragged from hug to hug, from one “Arabellita, you’re too thin” to another “Arabellita, you work too much,” with a few seconds in between to breathe.

Meanwhile, the twins lived like royalty.

They came down the grand staircase in pajamas that had somehow transformed into “criminally cute” outfits, complete with shiny little shoes, and the entire Gómez family behaved like two four-year-olds had just stopped by from Hollywood to pick up empanadas.

Fiona was the worst.

My sister stood in the kitchen in a pretty apron, and every five minutes she found a new excuse to feed Issa a piece of fruit or hand Max a tiny glass of juice. The two of them accepted everything with the exact same expression: calm, entitled, and slightly condescending.

Issa lifted her chin every time someone said her name.

“Isabella Maria,” Abuela, one of Papá’s aunts, exclaimed, cupping Issa’s cheeks. “Ay, mi reina.”

Issa blinked slowly. Dramatic. “I know,” she said. Then, because she’s my daughter, she added very seriously, “My hair is tired.”

“Tired?” my younger cousin, Renata, laughed as she adjusted Issa’s glitter clips. “Your hair isn’t a person, honey.”

Issa looked at her. “It has feelings.”

Max stood two steps behind her. “Her hair is tired because it smells like Tio Theo,” he announced with a grin, blue eyes shining mischievously. “Stinky.”

Theo choked. “Where did you learn the word ‘stinky,’ gremlin?”

Max pointed at me without an ounce of guilt. “Mama.”

I shrugged. “I teach them the important vocabulary.”

Mamá sighed.“Arabella…”

“What? Better they know how to say something smells bad than suffer in silence,” I shot back, and one of her eyebrows lifted, a clear sign I’d added to my list of sins.

Aunts, uncles, and Papá’s cousins, in numbers rivaling a small town’s population, came and went in waves. Some brought boxes of pastries, some brought toys, some just brought loud energy and expensive perfume.

Everyone had a different title for Max and Issa: mi príncipe, mi muñeca, mi tesoro.

Max sat on the living room sofa, his legs crossed, accepting chips from Aunt Lucia’s hand without even looking at her. Issa stood in front of the big hallway mirror, surrounded by girl cousins admiring her hair clips, while she critiqued them like a miniature fashion magazine editor.

“No, not that clip,” Issa said, pointing with her finger. “That one makes me look… sad.”

“You know the word ‘sad’?” Fiona asked, impressed.

Issa nodded slowly. “Yes. Mama is sad when Max breathes.”

Max burst out laughing, loud. “She mad because I’m handsome.”

Issa rolled her eyes. “You’re a potato.”

I closed my eyes for a second, swallowing down an inappropriate laugh. There was something exhausting about watching De Sanctis genes live on in the form of two children who were braver than me and even less filtered. I had to endure it, raise it, and wait until they were old enough to understand that “I’m selling you to the circus” was not a literal threat.

And of course, the Gómez family thought all of it was adorable.

“Look at them, they’re so smart,” Tia, one of Mamá’s sister, said, patting my back. “You’re amazing, Arabellita.”

I didn’t argue. I just shrugged, took a breath, and checked my phone: one email notification from Claire, two messages from Tania, and one annoying calendar reminder about the call on Monday, D.C. time.

Two days later, the engagement party arrived like a storm on the calendar.

The ballroom in Medellín was soaked in warm light. Tiny lights hung above our heads. A live band played softly in the background.

Naturally, our cousins were busy taking selfies.

Three of them were standing by the photobooth with its white floral backdrop, screaming “love you, sis!” at Fiona while raising their glasses. Someone was recording a story, someone else was dragging Aunt Carmen into the frame, someone was demanding a redo because “the lighting sucks.” All of it carried a level of intensity wildly disproportionate to an engagement party.

I sat in the corner, in the chair closest to the outlet. My life priorities were clear.

Next to me, my cousin Valeria sat in a perfectly fitted satin dress and a smile that was just a little too perfect. She leaned toward me, her brown eyes scanning the room.

“You chose this spot on purpose,” she said quietly.

I lifted my phone screen. “I chose electricity. That’s different.”

Valeria let out a tiny snort. “Ara…”

My thumbs were already flying over the keyboard, typing into my chat with Tania, the motion so familiar it felt like a reflex.

TANIA: Claire sent extra notes. They have a shadow admin account on a few VMs. You want us to flag it now or wait for Monday’s meeting?

I stared at the message, my brain instantly spinning out scenarios: rogue access, ghost accounts, compliance nightmare. I replied.

ME: Flag it now. Document everything. Don’t touch prod. If anyone argues, throw it to Claire.

Valeria glanced at my screen. “You’re working even at your sister’s party.”

“I’m a programmer. I don’t actually live,” I answered flatly.

In the center of the ballroom, Fiona looked like an ad for happiness. Her dress was ivory, not a wedding gown but definitely enough to make it clear she was in the phase of not caring who was jealous. She laughed brightly, hugged aunts, greeted guests, and every now and then waved at me from across the room like, look at me, sis, I’m happy.

And I lifted my hand and waved back with a thin smile.

Max and Issa didn’t stay still for more than three seconds.

They ran from one clump of kids to another, their little cousins circling them like satellites orbiting the two loudest planets in the room. Delano, another one of my cousins, stood by the dessert table, completely surrounded by children.

“Tiooo Delano!” Issa yelled, dramatic as ever, her hand waving wildly. “Carry me, I’m tired.”

“Tired from what?” Delano laughed, bending down. “You’ve been running for five minutes.”

Issa pressed a hand to her chest. “From being beautiful.”

Max snorted. “She’s tired because she talks too much.”

Issa snapped her head toward him. “Maxime.”

Max grinned, on purpose. “What?”

I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t laugh too loudly. Valeria watched me like she’d just discovered the human side of the allegedly cold corporate monster.

“You look… happy,” she said.

“I’m just enjoying the fact that they’re stressing other people out,” I replied.

“Incredible maternal instinct.”

“You don’t know what maternal is until you’ve chased a four-year-old holding a permanent marker.”

At the far end of the ballroom, something shifted.

Fiona moved toward the center, welcomed by a chorus of little screams and scattered applause. I lifted my gaze without meaning to, just because the commotion forced my eyes to follow.

And I saw her fiancé’s back.

Tall, broad shoulders, a black tailored suit that fit too perfectly, too controlled. His head bent slightly toward Fiona, his left arm resting around my sister’s waist.

And the band of white metal on his finger caught the string lights above us.

One flash.

But it was enough to make the back of my neck prickle, like I’d just walked through an over-air-conditioned room.

Seriously… the vibe hit me so hard my neck heated up. There was something too familiar about him. The annoying kind of familiar, the kind that made the back of my brain start kicking at doors, flipping on every light, then screaming in a hoarse, panicked voice: DON’T. DON’T. DON’T.

I lifted the glass of water in my hand and took a drink. My throat was dry. Valeria said something, but I didn’t catch it.

I forced myself to look at my kids instead.

Issa was now leading an army of children, her little cape flying behind her, glitter clips throwing back the light. Max trailed behind, instigating, whispering something into one cousin’s ear, and the kid screamed and took off running.

I clicked my tongue and started to stand, ready to shut them down, but Papá’s voice sliced through the air.

“My children,” Papá said, calm and steady. “Family. Friends.”

The noise dropped. The live music softened.

Papá turned to Fiona, his eyes warm. “Tonight, we celebrate my youngest daughter.” He lifted his glass slightly higher. “And let us welcome the future new member of the Gómez family.”

I pulled my mouth into a smile.

“Zachary de Sanctis.”

The name hit me like a punch to the chest.

I froze.

A cold, hard stillness ripped through every nerve, cutting all sound in my head. It was like my body forgot how to breathe, and all that was left was a single word buzzing in my ears.

No.

I couldn’t feel the glass in my hand. I couldn’t feel the chair under me. I didn’t hear Valeria suddenly saying my name.

All I saw was the back of that black suit, and the way the man inside it moved.

Slow.

Controlled.

Like he always knew exactly when the spotlight was going to land on him.

He turned to face the guests.

And then… the blue eyes I’d once punched found mine across the crowd.