I looked towards my Nana, with my pleading eyes searching her face, for a sign. Any sign in her old, wise, judging eyes that told me she wanted me to answer the phone call of the pleading man’s voice. I knew that voice, that voice behind the phone. “Xiomahara, I love you,” It reminded me of the bitter taste of dark chocolate, the sour taste of my tears rolling down my cheek into my lips, brown cinnamon and everything that is manly. I wanted to answer the phone. I saw myself getting up from the couch and inching closer to the phone but stopped half way and turned my head to look at my grandma again.

“Go,” she implied, “if you want to answer him, go,” she was leaning again the kitchen door, her pose was calm, relaxed, but I could also feel her tense and detect some rigidness in her face. She was looking at me and even though she told me it was alright to talk to him I knew it would hurt her.

I stared into my Nana’s dull brown eyes, “Xiomahara, this is the last time I’ll get to talk to you,” the man said he sound sad. “Please answer the phone,” he pleaded. “Please.”

“But,” I struggled to move forward, my feet started to walk forward but my body leaned back, I staggered. If Nana were not here I would answer the phone, but she was here. Or maybe it was just an excuse, after all he always called Sunday evening and sometimes even if I was in the living room sitting next to the phone, I would let his call go to voice mail.

“It’s your choice, Xiomahara. Do whatever you want to do.” I nervously smiled at her, I had finally made a decision, I was going to answer the phone. I quickly walked up to the phone, the man was saying goodbye. I did not want him to say goodbye, this would be the last time he talked to me, I had to answer the phone. I knew the story; I knew what had happened between him and my mamá, but I still loved him. “Okay, Xiomahara, I have to go now, I love you, goodbye. Bye,” he said as I clicked the call button on the phone. That was the last time my father ever called me, it was the last time I ever heard my father’s voice. It has been 10 years.