Camilo gazed at his reflection in the mirror, as he did every day. He couldn't face himself for long. He hated what he saw—a boy who couldn't accept who he was. He hadn't healed like the others. Isabela had come to terms with her imperfections, Luisa had learned to relax, Mirabel had found her place at the center of the family, Dolores was getting all the attention as she prepared to marry Mariano, and Antonio had the love and care that comes with being the youngest. But Camilo? He couldn't seem to heal. He felt like nobody paid attention to him, like he wasn't even seen. He longed for someone to want him for who he truly was—not for the persona he shapeshifted into to meet everyone else's needs.
Every time someone asked him for help, he had to become someone else. Why couldn't they just accept him? Why couldn't he be appreciated as Camilo Madrigal?
These thoughts had been with him since he was 10, but he had never had the courage to talk to anyone about them. Today, though… maybe he could try. Maybe his Mami could make him feel better. He gathered all the courage he could muster, then he turned away from the mirror and slowly went downstairs. He still wasn't sure how to bring it up, but he had to try. As he reached the bottom, he found his mother, Pepa, fixing Antonio's clothes.
"Mami?" he said softly, his voice shaky. His eyes looked up at her with fear, the worry that she wouldn't listen making his heart race. "Mami… I want to talk about something."
Pepa glanced up, still focused on Antonio, and sighed. "Camilo, can't you see I'm a little busy? Wait a moment. Antonio, stay still!" Pepa continued fussing over her son as Camilo stood there, his heart sinking. He tried again, but his voice faltered.
"Mami, please… I—"
"Not now, Camilo," Pepa interrupted. "I need to finish with Antonio. Dolores is coming, and I need to talk to her too. Stay for a minute, okay?"
Before Camilo could say anything else, Pepa was already moving, her focus entirely on Antonio, and then Dolores stepped in.
"Ah! Dolores, I was just going to come to you," Pepa said, looking at her daughter with a bright smile. "Let's go pick out the dress for my hija."
Camilo stood there, invisible once again. His heart throbbed in his chest. Maybe she was too busy with Antonio and Dolores. Maybe she didn't even notice him standing there. Maybe she didn't care if he existed. The thought burned, and he couldn't hold back his tears any longer. He rushed to his room, his footsteps quick and quiet, trying to hide his hurt.
Lying on his bed, he buried his face in the pillow, letting the tears come freely. "Why does Mami always ignore me?" he whispered, the words thick with pain. "Maybe they only see me when I'm someone else." He wiped his eyes and stared at the ceiling, trying to calm his breathing. His mind raced through the things he wished he could say, the things he needed to hear.
He stood up and faced the mirror once more, his hands trembling. He pulled the cloth away from it and sighed deeply. He had always been able to change himself, but now, it felt like a curse. He transformed into Dolores, then Antonio, and finally Mirabel. "Even Mirabel found her place," he muttered to himself, bitterly. He shifted into his four-year-old self, remembering a time when things were different. "Life was better then," he thought. "At least they were all around me. Tickling me, playing with me. I didn't have to be anyone else."
Suddenly, a knock interrupted his thoughts. "Camilo! Abuela says we gotta go to the village to help people!" Mirabel called from the other side of the door.
"I'll be there in a minute," Camilo replied, his voice soft. He didn't want to go, didn't want to shapeshift anymore. But he couldn't say no. He couldn't bear the thought of disappointing anyone, especially not in front of his family. With a heavy sigh, he got up and wiped his face. He quickly changed and headed out.
When they reached the village, everyone did what they were good at. Luisa lifted heavy loads and, for once, could relax afterward. Mirabel entertained the children with songs. But Camilo? He did what he was good at, even if it never made him happy.
A lady came up to him, looking exhausted. "Camilo, I'm so tired. Could you hold him for me? I need a nap," she asked, handing him her baby.
Though he didn't want to shapeshift, he nodded with a forced smile. "Of course," he said, stepping into the role she needed him to play.
And so, one by one, he took care of children—infants to toddlers, all needing something from him. He was kind, lighthearted, always smiling, even as the weight of his own sadness crushed him from the inside. He made a young girl smile after she'd been crying, but inside, he couldn't help but think, "I wish someone could make me smile too."
He kept going, helping more children, but as the hours passed, he realized he hadn't eaten. His stomach growled in protest, but he didn't feel like stopping. As the villagers began to return to their homes, he felt a deep ache of loneliness. He caught sight of the Madrigal grandkids—laughing, playing, chattering together. They all seemed to belong. He, on the other hand, had spent so much of his childhood looking after other people's kids that he never got to enjoy the same things. Just because he could shapeshift didn't mean he should have to take responsibility for everyone else's children. But if he didn't, Abuela would be disappointed. That would make Pepa embarrassed, and then Camilo would feel even worse.
As his gaze wandered, he met the eyes of Señora Rosa. She looked at him with disdain. "How pitiful," she muttered under her breath. "Some people are left by their family." Camilo froze, the words stabbing into his heart. The sting of her words burned deeply, but he had no choice but to ignore it. He could not let anyone see how it hurt.
With his head lowered, he walked back toward the family home, hoping that a meal with everyone would make him feel better. At least it was Tía Julieta's cooking. But when he entered the dining room, his hopes shattered.
"Milo, stop," Pepa said sharply as he stood by the table, ready to sit down. "You look filthy. Did you play in the sand again?"
"Mami…" Camilo began, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Go take a shower," she said, a concerned frown on her face. "You'll catch something if you don't." Her words were firm, and Camilo didn't dare argue. She cared for him, but it felt like nothing he did was ever enough.
He stood up quietly and trudged toward the bathroom, his heart heavy. As the warm water hit his face in the shower, the cruel words of Señora Rosa played in his mind. "How pitiful... some people are left by their family." He repeated them over and over, feeling as though they were the only words that defined him now.
As the water poured over him, his tears mixed with it. He couldn't hold them back any longer. His sobs filled the bathroom, the sound of his crying only drowned out by the rush of water. After what felt like forever, he dried himself off and put on his clothes, but his body felt empty, just like his heart. His stomach growled again—hungry, aching—but he couldn't bear the thought of eating with everyone. When he came back downstairs, everyone had already finished their meals. He could hear their chatter from the kitchen, the clinking of plates, the laughter. His appetite was gone, replaced by a deep loneliness.
He quietly turned and went back to his room, his heart heavy with everything he hadn't said. He lay down on his bed, the emptiness of the house pressing in on him. "How pitiful… some people are left by their family," he whispered to himself, the words now echoing in his mind. His stomach was empty, his heart even emptier, but at least the silence in his room could shield him from the world outside.