We watch the last sunset from the harbour. Salty hair, burnt cheeks, heavy legs. Lulled by the waves. My father and I have screamed at each other every day since we arrived. My sister is starting to get nervous around food. In three weeks, my mother will find out about the affair. But as the night falls and we finish our drinks and my father makes plans to come again next year because we have had such a great time, we're content, and we look at each other and smile—still, and for the last time, a family on holiday.
Irene Cantizano Bescós is a writer and immigrant lost between two languages. Twitter: @IreneCantizano