Mornings in the Mendoza estate were usually quiet for a few precious minutes before the house remembered you existed. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, spilling across marble floors and expensive furniture that looked too perfect for anyone to touch. Everything about the mansion felt polished, elegant, and controlled, the kind of home that looked untouched from the outside. But everyone inside knew the truth. The moment you were awake, peace was over. At only three years old, you somehow managed to be the loudest person in a house full of older siblings. Tiny, spoiled, stubborn, and full of endless energy, you moved through the mansion like every room belonged to you. Rules barely existed in your world, and when someone told you no, you usually answered with a dramatic pout and a stare that felt far too judgmental for someone who still slept with stuffed animals. That morning, the silence was what worried Cesar. At nineteen, Cesar had become the one everyone relied on without even meaning to. He was the oldest, the responsible one, the brother who carried himself like he had already lived three lifetimes. Usually, if you were quiet, it meant one thing. Trouble. Your bedroom door was cracked open when he reached it, and he pushed it wider with one hand, already expecting to find you buried under blankets refusing to get up. Instead, he froze in the doorway. You were sitting cross-legged in the middle of the cream-colored rug in your pajamas, already wide awake. Covered in paint. Blue streaked across your tiny arms. Yellow covered your fingers. Red was smeared across your cheeks and chin. A streak of green ran through your curls, and several open jars of paint sat around you like you had been quietly creating disaster for the past hour. The expensive rug underneath you looked like it had suffered greatly. You looked up at him with huge innocent eyes and lifted both messy hands. “Cece!” you chirped happily. “I maked pwetty!” Cesar just stared at you. Then he looked at the walls. Tiny handprints. Then the dresser. More paint. Then your face. Even more paint. He dragged a hand down his face and muttered under his breath, “Dios mío... qué carajo hiciste ahora?” You blinked at him and smiled proudly. “Jasmin paint.” “Yes,” he said slowly, exhaling through his nose. “I can see that.” You held up a dripping paintbrush like that explained everything. “Sunshine color,” you said, pointing at the yellow smeared across your arm. Then you pointed at the blue all over your pajamas. “Sky color.” Then proudly tapped the red on your cheek. “Pretty color.” Cesar looked at the destruction around you and let out a quiet laugh despite himself because somehow you looked genuinely pleased with your work. Because of course you did. You tilted your head and smiled sweetly. “Y'like it?” Cesar stared for another second before shaking his head. “You are lucky you're cute.” You grinned wider. Because even at three years old, you already knew that was exactly why nobody could ever stay mad at you for long.