Chapter 3: was dressed in a black suit and an absurdly short skirt, opened her free arm in the same welcoming manner as her mother when she spotted me.

She said, "Hey, girl." Her eyes were dry yet puffed up. We briefly discussed uninteresting topics, the kind of discussions you have when you're stumped for words. I wanted to explain why I hadn't come, but I was at a loss for words. Instead, I made a remark about the crowd.

It appears as though she raised a village, huh? When the signal to start the procession to the cemetery came, I said, nodding my head in the direction of the young adults swarming the church's exterior.

Tally coughed. Well, we can't really expect the elderly to attend the town escort's burial, can we?

I gave a headshake. I remarked, "I've never understood that. Why do individuals have to invent stories only to satisfy their jealousy?

Tally grinned wryly and gave me the side-eye. "Go ahead. You are aware that it was true. Wasn't that common knowledge?

I just kept staring at her. My words failed me.

Tally made a shrug. "I suppose we didn't really discuss it, but I thought we were all aware of it. What do you mean, all those dates, and no boyfriend? She let out a little laugh. She was employed.

I swallowed deeply and mumbled, "I didn't know," trying not to display any signs of astonishment or the evaluation that my mind was trying to form. The Carmen of my childhood did not resemble the Carmen who slept with guys for money.

Tally retorted, "She wasn't a hooker. She served as an escort. She usually served as companionship for wealthy older men looking for casual dates. Not that it matters, but she hardly shared a bed with any of them.

I just kept looking at her. I was unsure of how to handle this brand-new piece of information about Carmen, which had presumably always existed.

Tally exhaled a puff of smoke as she shook her head. Not that it matters, she said once again. You know, it's never happened. She had to do that. It didn't reflect who she was. Tally turned to face me after dropping the cigarette and stepping on it with her toe.

She said, "You know who she was. She had a crushing melancholy on her face that was indicative of an orphan in every sense of the word.

I extended my arm to embrace her as I nodded. I mumbled, "She was everything," feeling waves of guilt for any moment of criticism that had passed across my face. “Everything.”

Carmen died a long time ago, and it's been just as long since I last saw Tally or her sisters. Like everyone else these days, we communicate with one another on social media. I have observed Tally, her sisters, and their close-knit family—which includes their spouses and, most significantly, their daughters—getting married and starting children. Every single one of them has long, black hair, crazy family gatherings, and a similar, head-thrown-back laugh. I recognise Carmen in each and every one of them.

I consider how, in the end, my mother and her friends were correct. Carmen was a woman who occasionally engaged in sexual activity for payment. With a background of being a teenage mother and having kids with several fathers, it seemed as though it was the entirety of her, of her being. As if it weren't just a means of making a respectable life. As if she could only be defined by those things, leaving no room for anything else, including truth, friendship, or love.

But Tally was accurate. I recognised her. She was the kind of mother I knew—one who made our childhood seem magical, who listened to us when we were teenagers, and who brought happiness wherever she went. She was someone I knew to give all to her children, both adopted and biological, as well as the rest of us who fell in love with her. When I had my own kids and started the challenging task of raising females, I had her as a person in the back of my thoughts at all times. I reflected on how simple she made it look, as if giving in, pizza and drink, no bedtimes, and no boundaries were necessary.

I don't generally parent like Carmen. I'm a mother who enforced rigorous bedtimes, sleep-trained newborns, and disciplined a kid for riding her bike without a helmet. I have guidelines, limits, and timetables... But on occasion, I like to imagine that Carmen is invading me, easing my stiff joints, racing heart, and life's anxiety.

She actually showed us how to seize the moment, after all. How to respond positively to my daughters' requests to cook brownies for breakfast. how to listen quietly without making everything into a teaching opportunity. How to be foolish and have fun even when other people find you amusing. How to hug someone such that they will always know how much you care.

The ages of my girls and their friends are very similar to mine during those enchanted years of summers spent by the pool and stargazing. When I drive them and have the music up with the windows down, I feel this want to radiate Carmen. When I see their stunning, unreserved joy on their faces in the rearview mirror, I can feel her presence.

I can picture myself in them from years ago, singing along to Madonna in the backseat of a Volvo with Tally and our sisters. Carmen is driving, her lovely face is in the rearview mirror, and her voice is the loudest and most beautiful of all of us. Her hair is flying around her like a halo.