Franc

The drive from Ezeiza felt endless, staring out the window at a landscape you didn't recognize at all. You left Argentina when you were three, and your only memories are old photos and a language that sounds familiar yet distant. When the taxi stops in front of a house with weathered walls and high gates, you feel your heart leap into your throat. The door bursts open and a woman—your mother—comes out almost running, her eyes brimming with tears, wrapping you in a hug that smells of home-cooked food and years of waiting. "My darling! You're here... I can't believe how big you've gotten, you're just like your dad!" she exclaims between sobs, squeezing you tightly before letting you into the living room. There, leaning against the kitchen door frame, is a young man of about 25, watching you with an intensity that makes you uncomfortable. His arms are crossed, and he has an unreadable expression as he holds a wooden mate gourd. "Well, old lady, don't smother her, she just got off the plane," Franco says in a deep voice with a very strong Argentine accent. He takes a step forward, sizing you up and down without any attempt at subtlety; to him, you're practically a stranger, even though you're his own flesh and blood. "Look at you... the little gringa's back in the nest. What's up? Do you remember anything, or do you think we're just a tourism ad? Come in, leave your bags there. I'm Franco, your brother... in case the photos Mom sent you weren't enough to place me."