Lucia pressed her forehead to the airplane window. “Snow,” she whispered. “I’m really going to see snow.”
But her heart ached. “Mami said it’s just for a few weeks,” she reminded herself. “Just until she comes.”
As she stepped into the arrivals hall, she spotted two familiar faces. “Tía Valentina! Tío Juan!”
“¡Lucia! ¡Mira cómo has crecido!” her aunt exclaimed, hugging her tightly. “You’re almost taller than me now,” Uncle Juan laughed.
In the car, Lucia stared out at the icy streets. “Why did you leave Colombia?” she asked.
Uncle Juan’s voice was soft. “La guerrilla came to our mountain. It wasn’t safe anymore.”
“We thought we’d go back,” added Tía Valentina. “But it’s not the right time.” Lucia frowned. “So… I’m not just visiting?”
They exchanged glances. “No, mi amor,” her aunt said gently. “You’re staying. For a while.”
Lucia’s eyes filled with tears. “But what about Mami?” “She’s coming,” her uncle promised. “She’s packing everything. She’ll be here soon.”
Lucia nodded slowly. That night, she wrote - Dear Mami, I miss you already. I know you didn’t want to tell me we were moving forever. But I understand. I’ll be brave. I promise.
A few days later, Lucia stood at the curb, bundled in her winter coat. “That’s your bus,” said Tía Valentina. Lucia’s eyes widened. “It’s huge!”
“You’ll be fine,” her aunt smiled. “Just smile at the driver.” Lucia took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll try.”
She climbed aboard and scanned the seats. “Hi,” said a girl with blonde hair and glasses. Lucia blinked. “Um… hola?”
The girl said something else, but Lucia didn’t understand. Her throat tightened. She turned to the window and saw her aunt waving. A tear slipped down her cheek.
The girl gently handed her a tissue. The bus pulled up to a massive building. “École élémentaire Sainte-Thérèse,” said the driver.
Lucia stepped off, clutching her backpack. A teacher greeted her. “Bonjour, Lucia! Come with me.”
Inside the classroom, the teacher smiled. “Take off your coat and stand here so everyone can meet you.” Lucia hesitated.
Then she spotted the girl from the bus—now wearing a yellow sweater. Lucia whispered, “Is that… the same girl?”
The girl smiled. “I’m Amanda.” Lucia smiled back. “Lucia.” Amanda pointed to her sweater. “Different color, same person.” Lucia giggled. “You look like sunshine.”
The teacher handed out crayons. “Let’s draw a bonhomme de neige!” Lucia held up a carrot. “Is this his nose?”
Amanda nodded. “And sticks for arms!” Lucia laughed. “He looks like he’s dancing!”
The bell rang. Amanda jumped up. “Recess!” Lucia followed her outside. “Whoa,” she gasped. “That slide is taller than my house!”
They were breathless from playing when a lunch lady approached. She looked worried. Amanda whispered, “I think she wants us to go inside.”
In the lunchroom, kids sat at long tables, eating from colorful lunchboxes. The lady asked Amanda something. Amanda shrugged and pointed toward their classroom.
Lucia watched her walk away, confused. The lunch lady showed Lucia a picture of a school bus. Lucia’s eyes widened. “Oh no… I forgot!”
She followed the lady to the office, heart pounding. The principal looked kind but serious. “Let’s call someone,” she said, picking up the phone.
A boy walked in. “Hola,” he said. “I’m José. I speak Spanish.” Lucia’s shoulders relaxed. “Gracias.”
He asked, “Why were you outside during lunch?” Lucia’s face turned red. “I forgot about the bus…”
She remembered her aunt’s words—“At lunchtime, look for Mr. Lucas and bus 778.” “I messed up,” she whispered. “I thought I was lost forever.”
José smiled kindly. “You’re not lost. The principal called your aunt. She’s coming.” Lucia sniffled. “Really?” “Really. You’re safe.”
When her aunt arrived, Lucia ran into her arms. “I thought I missed you forever!” Her aunt kissed her forehead. “Never, mi amor. Never.”
In the car, her aunt explained again. “Bus 778. Morning, lunch, and after school. Mr. Lucas will always wait.” Lucia nodded. “I’ll remember this time.”
That night, over arroz con pollo, Uncle Juan asked, “So, how was school?” Lucia smiled. “I made a friend. Her name’s Amanda. She gave me a tissue.”
Her aunt laughed. “That’s a good friend.” Lucia nodded. “The best kind.”
Weeks passed. Lucia learned the bus routine, learned new words, and laughed at Amanda’s silly jokes every day.
One morning, a surprise announcement: the school would host a winter festival and every class would share a small performance.
Lucia worried—she didn’t feel brave enough to speak in front of the whole school in French. Amanda squeezed her hand. “We can do it together.”
On the day, Lucia was chosen to say the first line in Spanish, and then Amanda would translate in French. Lucia’s knees trembled.
Lucia opened her mouth. Her voice was small at first, then steadied. The crowd listened, then applauded softly.
Afterward, a surprising hush fell—Amanda stepped forward and said, “My mamá is from Colombia too.” Lucia blinked. They had never mentioned it before.
The small twist tied their stories together; Lucia realized she wasn’t the only one who had left a home to begin again.
That evening, a phone call—Mami’s flight was ready. Tía Valentina hugged Lucia and whispered, “She’ll be here tomorrow.”
Lucia could hardly sleep. She lay awake counting the lamps outside, imagining Mami stepping into the kitchen and smelling the arroz con pollo.
In the morning, the family waited at the arrivals hall again; Lucia held her letter tight and smoothed her hair. The doors opened.
Lucia ran forward—but it wasn’t just Mami who stepped in. Standing beside her was a woman Lucia had never met but who knelt and said, “Hola, mi niña.”
Lucia clung to Mami and then looked up, surprised—Amanda’s grandmother was there too, smiling and waving. Small world, Lucia thought, and her chest felt wide with room for more.
That night, Lucia read her letter aloud to Mami: I’ll be brave. I promise. Mami kissed her hair and said, “You already were.”
Lucia had learned a secret: brave wasn’t never being afraid—it was going anyway, and asking for help when she needed it.
In the weeks that followed, Lucia taught a new child the bus routine, and Amanda translated when necessary; Lucia’s small promise had become a bridge.
One evening, Lucia tucked her letter back into her backpack and whispered, “Mi promesa.” She smiled and fell asleep to the hush of snow on the roof.
Outside, the city glowed under a blanket of snow, and inside, Lucia’s house glowed with new names, new friends, and a promise kept.
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