Inigo heard a light knock on the door. He looked over his shoulder to see his mother’s head peeking in.  
“Please come downstairs. Everyone is waiting on you,” she said gently with her full lips, painted in a faded red.  
He responded with a grunt and turned back to his work. His hands fidgeted with the script for his school play.  
Lupé pushed the door and stepped aggressively into the untidy room. Although she was small, her presence filled the room.  
“You won’t be missing anything. Time with us is more important than whatever you’re doing right now.”  
“I can’t, it simply isn’t possible,” he sighed, dramatically, into his hands.  
Lupé rolled her hazel eyes. Inigo was always resistant to spending time with his family.  
“It will only take twenty minutes. Es tiempo con la familia. Please come down,” she pleaded.  
Inigo reluctantly got up, and looked back at his messy desk with the script on it. Then, he followed his mom, and dragged himself down the wooden stairs into their tightly packed living room. He plopped himself on to the leather armchair. He shifted in his seat aware of his mother’s glaring eyes, waiting to see how he would begin praising her god. A tension lingered in the air.  
“En el nombre del padre, el hijo, y el espíritu santo…” his father began. 
Inigo cautiously began a delayed sign of the cross as he sunk further into the chair. His mom and dad kneeled before the wooden crucifix. They waited a moment for his siblings to settle down their fidgets and giggles.  
“Creo en Dios, Padre todo poderoso,” the family harmonized, while Inigo mouthed the words. 
He stared around the room. An icon of the Sacred heart of Jesus stared back at him. Candles covered in images of the Virgin of Guadalupe and the Divine Mercy lit the paneled, mahogany walls.    
“El primero misterio luminoso: el bapstismo de Jesús,” his father prayed.  
Inigo looked down at his hands. He tugged aggressively at the beads as they began the first decade. Had it been a Friday or Tuesday, the days of misterios dolorosos, Inigo’s mother would have forced him onto his knees to suffer.  
 
Lupe’s eyes were closed as she prayed fervently on her bruised knees, her figure illuminated by the candlelight.  
“Y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús…”  
 
Blessed is the fruit of your womb.  Lupé had told him the story over and over.  It became a mantra.  Just over 17 years ago, she had asked the Blessed Mother for the gift of a child.  She and her husband tried and tried for several years, but month after month, there was only blood and tears. But after thirty days of praying the forgotten rosary, Lupé found herself with what she had always wanted: a child. It was a golden miracle to her. While Inigo grew up, his mother would often tell him, “Tú eres mi milagro” with a bright smile and tears in her eyes.  
 
The white beaded rosary clung to her bosom as she continued.  
 
“Ruega por nosotros peacadoras ahora y en la hora de nuesta muerte,” they all prayed, but Inigo’s mother seemed to cry the loudest.  
 
Lupé opened her eyes to find her beloved son, her little miracle, slouched over, rubbing his eyes.  He had inherited his father’s broad build. Inigo had other things on his mind: essays, theatre, his lines, scholarship deadlines, college decisions, friends…. Everything plus his mother’s god. A god that was not his but had been at a time.  
 
He sat a little straighter and aggressively swung his rosary back and forth, mesmerized by its motion.  
His eyes met his mother’s, and he stopped, snapping back into the present.  
“Mijo,” Inigo’s father whispered. “It’s your turn to lead.”  
“Our father,” he paused.  
“Who art in heaven.” he paused again.  
“Hallowed. Be. Thy. Name,” he said with false reverence.  
Catalina and Juanma both giggled in delight.  
“Inigo,” his mother shot out, sharply. Her brow furrowed and she hit him lightly with the back of her hand. His mother didn’t like it when he prayed in English, and too slowly, because it was too far from Latin. But, hey, at least he was praying.  
 
He rolled his eyes and continued, carefully this time.  
 
It hadn’t always been this way; Inigo used to be like his little, faithful siblings. He believed in God at one point. He prayed every day, too. In his room, late at night, he pictured himself singing with the angels, hugging the Blessed Mother.  
 
That was when he was a child. His belief slowly started to change. The change was like discovering your parents were the ones eating the cookies on Christmas eve and placing the money under your pillow when you lost a tooth. It was inevitable for him. 
 
Desiring a quiet space away from the noise of the newborn twins, Inigo found himself in the library just a few blocks away.  Inigo recalled the stories his mother told of growing up, watching her family work on the fields all day. It was back breaking and brutal work out in a scorching sun.  
 
“One day,” Lupé said, “a man from the states came to my hometown. I was pulling the weeds when I saw him. He was wearing a nice suit, but his wasn’t from dirty money. He stayed at my house for a couple hours, talking to my parents. He was trying to get me out of the field and into a Catholic school, for a vida mejor off the streets, tu sabes. I didn’t want to go with him and leave my family. But my mom said she’d beat my a** every day if I didn’t go.” She chuckled for a moment as she dried the white dishes.  
“Study hard, milagro, so you don’t have to break your body for something that won’t get you anywhere.” 
When Inigo was a kid, he thought his mother meant she didn’t want him working as a farmer. But he later discovered it was more than that; What Lupe had failed to say was that her mother would beat her a**, so the gangs wouldn’t. Ciudad Juárez was peligroso, and it wasn’t because of the hot sun and the heat stroke. It was the pandillas that controlled the town.  
 
While Inigo was reading, when he was young, he came across the word “pandillas.” He read the horrible things they did to the people who didn’t obey them: fear, mutilation, death. How could a loving and merciful God allow that to happen?  
 
Inigo felt a drop of doubt on his shoulders.  
 
And then one Sunday more things changed. Inigo was dressed in the red and white, getting ready to serve for the mass. It was his turn to carry the crucifix in the procession. It was a big deal too- only the most prepared and strongest altar servers could carry it! 
 The music began and he led the procession down the aisle, but the crucifix became too heavy and he tripped and fell. He looked back and saw the priest giving him the evil eye. Inigo picked himself up and reached for the crucifix. The procession continued, but Inigo’s almond eyes were blinded by tears of embarrassment. During the mass, he felt enclosed in between in the walls of the church. The stained glass covered in the faces of the saints seemed to judge him. During the liturgy of the Eucharist, he led himself and the other servers out too late and he saw the priest’s green slits of eyes looking at him in disappointment. At the end of the mass, Inigo went to the back room and felt the shadow of Fr. Torres behind him.  
“Don’t mess up like that again,” he hissed. Inigo felt a sharp pain at the back of his neck and realized the priest had flicked him.   
Fr. Torres turned around and made his way to the exit to say farewell to the on-goers. Inigo took off the altar serving dress, and made his way out to his family. He was going to tell his mother what had happened, but she turned away from him for a moment.  
“Padre Torres, beautiful homily!” Inigo’s mother called out.  Torres nodded graciously and Inigo’s heart sank. And a flood of doubt knocked him over.  
“I must be the milagro. I must be strong,” he thought. But how could he when his body was so weary from doubt? How could he, when his mother seemed to turn away from him?  
 
Inigo turned to stories to turn away from the pain. Theatre became his life, so he wouldn’t have to deal with his pain. He wanted a different story. He didn’t want to know the ending to his own, when he could just pretend to be someone else.  
 
Inigo slowly stopped praying on his own. He could never stop going to mass, but he didn’t have to listen. He didn’t have to take communion.  
 
“Study hard and work hard, milagro.” He remembered his mother’s words now as they prayed. His leg shook aggressively. He was missing those holy twenty minutes of studying and preparing for his role.  
“Amen,” they all said.  
Inigo got up from the sunken chair and went to the tiny, blue powder room. He washed his hands and looked up at himself in the mirror. He had his mother’s hazel eyes, his father’s jaw, and a nose that looked like neither one of his parents. Did he look too much like his mom? Did he look too little like his mom?  
 
“Inigo, can I talk to you?” a voice asked.  
 
Inigo kept his face turned toward the mirror but moved his eyes to toward his father’s face. He was a tall and stocky man.  
Inigo nodded. They passed through the kitchen and went out onto the patio. The California sun set on the horizon, painting the sky in a wash of pink and orange. A gentle breeze stroked Inigo’s black hair as he sat under the canopy of trees.  
“I know all of this is really hard for you; To believe in something that you can’t touch- something that just isn’t there. But for your mother and I, it is.”  
“It’s exhausting to pray to nothing,” Inigo sighed.  
“I know it feels that way sometimes. But I have been praying to what feels like nothing for years. Some days, God feels so close it is overwhelming, but most days, I don’t feel anything. In my moments of doubt, I continue to pray because it makes your mother happy. Your mom has been through a lot, tú sabes,” he paused. “It’s her way of dealing with everything that goes on around her. We gotta make the ladies happy.”  
They both laughed. His father always had a way of lightening the mood. 
“I mean, familia es todo,” his dad said, placing his warm hand on Inigo’s shoulder. “You don’t have to believe in what we believe in. But just be with us, por favor.” 
 
Inigo looked to the window and inside the house he saw his mother kneeling before a plethora of lit candles that illuminated her cheekbones. She looked beautiful. Her eyes were closed, and Inigo could read her lips. She was always the last one to stand back up.  
  
He and his father sat there in the breeze until they were interrupted by the whining of kids.  
 
“It’s been a long day, I better go upstairs,” his dad sighed. “Be gentle with her,” his father said softly, as he kissed Inigo’s dark hair.  
Inigo sat outside in the breeze until it was pitch black and then made his way back into the house.  
“Tiempo para dormir,” Lupé said to Juanma and Catalina, getting up from her knees. She clutched onto the coffee table. The memory of her days on the field were still in her body. 
“Ughhh,” the gemelos cried. Their heads fell back in agony and Inigo chuckled to himself.  
“Apurrele, ahora,” their mother scorned with a stern hand.   
They drudged up the stairs into the dark hallway and Inigo followed, ready to go back to his studies. He was just about to enter his room when his brother spoke up.  
“Can we read a story first?” Juanma asked, with his brown puppy dog eyes.  
Their mother nodded her head graciously. 
“I want Inigo to read to us!” Catalina cried. Damn, he had so much to do from his lines to school work to- his father’s words rang in his ears. Familia es todo.  
“Fine, pero, primero, get into your pajamas,” their mother said, while rubbing her eyes.  
“You both can pick a book,” Inigo said.  
The twins scurried into Inigo’s room and came back with two books. One was Olivia and the other was beaten up and torn.  Inigo froze for a moment. The title read Jesús está en mi corazón. Jesus is in My Heart. Inigo rolled his eyes. 
“Can you pick another?” he asked. Catalina shut her eyes and fiercely shook her head.  
“Alright,” he sighed as he crawled into Catalina’s bed. The twins clung onto him.  
A few pages were torn. The memory of the days when he snuggled next to his mom and read the book was fresh in his mind.  The sound of his mother’s voice rang in his ears. The touch of her hand stroking his hair as he curled into her glided through his hair.  
“Jesús está en mi corazón,” Inigo said dully.  
“No! Sing it!” cried Catalina.   
“Jes-ús es-tá en mi cora-zón,” sang Inigo.  
The kids joined in.  
Jesus no viva en el cielo como un avion.  
No esta en la tierra como un pitón.  
Cada dia, Viva en mi corazón.   
 
As they sang, Inigo saw Lupé peeking into the room. Her full cheeks were illuminated by the fairy lights. There was a wetness in her eyes as she held her rosary to her chest.  
She joined in. Inigo and Lupé looked at each other in the eyes and they saw, and they heard, the memories of their singing.  
“Jesús está en mi corazón,” they sang one last time.  
 
Inigo didn’t know if there was a God. Or even if he believed in it. But the least he could do was sit there as his family prayed. For his hermanos. For his madre. Inigo kissed his siblings goodnight and went out the door into a dimly lit hallway, where his mother was standing. They both stared at each other, before his mother spoke.  
“Goodnight, milagro,” she said, hesitantly lifting her arms around him. “Te quiero.”  
“Te quiero,” he said as he hugged his mom tightly.