Beyond the Ties of Blood by Florencia Mallon

began the five-block hike to the city’s main avenue, he recalled yet again how dramatically his life had changed since they’d moved to their new house.
    He’d spent the first decade of his life on a tiny street a block long that ran diagonally between two small parks, right off the main boulevard in Temuco’s oldest immigrant neighborhood. The chubby, ruddy-faced woman who cleaned, washed, and cooked for them during the day would go home when his mama came back for tea. Mama would read him stories or trot behind him in the park as he learned to ride a tricycle, then a bicycle, by himself. Papa was even busier at his bakeries on weekends, so when it was sunny Mama would take him to the park that overlooked the city and they’d have lunch in the small sandwich shop and she’d buy him an apricot ice cream for dessert. On rainy weekends they’d visit her parents at their tailor shop, but Mama and Grandma Myriam would usually get into a fight. Almost always it was about the same thing, why didn’t his papa come over too, why didn’t he spend time with his family, why was he always at the bakery. When Grandma made some comment about how making money wasn’t the most important thing in the world, the visit would end suddenly as his mother took him by the arm, putting his wet overcoat back on, the drops of rain from the umbrellas pelting him on the nose as she opened them back up on the way out the door.
    One day, about a month short of his tenth birthday, Manuel was out in the park when his mama came home. He ran up to her, his brand-new friend in tow. “Mama,” he asked, “can Marcelo have tea with us?” Mama had looked the other boy up and down, her glance lingering over his scuffed shoes, the hole in his sweater right below the left elbow, the old dirt and snot stains on his cheeks.
    â€œNot today, Manuelito,” she’d said after a short silence. “Maybe another day.”
    There’d never been another day. He’d asked her about it a couple of times, but her answer was always vague, and she always managed to change the subject. When he’d wanted to invite Marcelo to his birthday party, Mama had murmured something about “keeping it in the family.” They celebrated with Mama and Papa, Grandma Myriam and Grandpa David. Several weeks later, he’d come home from the park to find both parents at home, a special teatime snack ready, their faces shining with anticipation. His mama gave him a hug, and Papa beamed encouragement from his place at the head of the table.
    â€œManuelito dear, we have some wonderful news,” she began. “We’ve found a wonderful new house, it’s at least three times bigger than this one, you’ll have your own room, study and bathroom, almost like your own apartment. The yard is huge, you won’t even have to go out to the park to ride your bike.”
    â€œYes,” his papa chimed in, the remnants of his childhood German still echoing in his accent, “the yard, it is so large, you can invite all the children in the neighborhood over, they all fit to play soccer, we build the goal posts if you want.”
    â€œAnd Manuelito,” his mother added, “we’ll be so near that wonderful new school I’ve been wanting for you, and they give preference to people in the neighborhood, so yesterday when I went by and explained about our new house the headmistress went right ahead and signed your acceptance papers, and …” She petered off in mid-sentence as she got a glimpse of his shocked face. “What’s the matter, niñito ?”
    â€œBut I don’t want to move. I’m happy here—” His papa had cut him off.
    â€œIt is better in the new house. Many children live on the street, from families more like us. In school, too. You’ll be happier there.” Manuel knew that Papa meant it as a promise, but it had sounded like an order.
    And so