Book - Hole to Whole

We were in Chile, the sun warm on our skin, and the day stretched out before us—free, endless. Marcela, Susi, Patty, and me. The sisters. Not sure where my parents had wandered off to, but that was the way of childhood—lost in the moment, trusting the world to hold us. Susi’s idea was simple but perfect: let’s go to El Bato, our secret corner of the beach—a place that felt like ours, even if it was just for today. So, we hitchhiked, naive and fearless, not thinking anything could happen to us. We got dropped off at the train tracks, and I fell into step behind, hoping a train would come so I could run alongside it, just like in the movies—like in Stand By Me . I remember pressing my ear to the tracks, listening for that distant rumble, feeling the vibration beneath my cheek, alive with possibility. We pushed through swamps, the mud and marsh pulling at our feet, until finally—the beach. Our haven. Waves towering and fierce, crashing in threes as if challenging us to count them, to ...

I asked my mother once—softly, like the question itself might bruise—if she remembered the belt. She blinked at me from across the kitchen table, sunlight catching in her hair, and said no. Like it had never happened. Like the sharp whistle of leather through air wasn’t a sound that had stitched itself into my bones. Maybe she buried it. I didn’t get that luxury. I remember laughing at dinner. Just laughing. Belt. I remember running down the hallway instead of walking. Belt. A word spoken out of turn. Belt. Acting like a child when I was one. Belt. The worst part wasn’t the sting. It was the waiting. The way the air would change—thick and metallic—when he reached for it. The way my pulse would roar in my ears as I stood there, knowing what was coming. The anticipation hollowed me out long before the first strike ever landed. My mother would go quiet. Silent in that way that felt louder than screaming. My sisters would freeze, wide-eyed, terrified they’d be next. I can still see them cl...

I’m the Country Director. Second post in Ecuador. Sitting here in the presidential palace, coffee steaming in front of me, cookies I won’t touch but can’t deny are pretty damned tempting. My nametag rests on the table—silent, official. I’m in a meeting that feels like the first step into a world I’ve been trying to navigate for months. On the way here, in the motorpool of the Ambassador, I was already sweating the shoes I brought. Too big. Way too big. My feet kept slipping out with every step through the guard station, and I swear the guards were politely pretending not to notice. I didn’t want to look like an idiot, so I quietly stole a few sheets from my notebook—discreetly shoved them into the shoes, trying to make them fit. Miraculously, it worked. Go figure. Still Anni—still figuring it out, still fighting to keep my footing. I sit as ladylike as I can manage—standing straight, shoulders back, trying to look confident even though inside I’m a whirlwind. I remember to smile fo...