All five of us are sitting awkwardly in my mother’s living room: my mom and I, my stepmother, and my stepmother’s parents, Ander and Mariam. I’m eleven years old and I know no other way to call them than by their names. My stepmother insists I call them grandma and grandpa, but I refuse. Especially in front of my mom. They’ve come to ask her permission to let Ander take me on a motorcycle trip through Northern California and Nevada, and even after I’ve told her how much I don’t want to go she seems to be considering it. I try to catch her eye to stand firm, but she’s deep in conversation with Ander.