The day before Noche Buena, I decided I’d waited long enough and set off to Tío Fito’s apartment to find my dad. I’d been back in Miami for three days at that point, and Papi had only called once—the day I got in from Rawlings, to make sure my flight landed and that I’d been on it. He didn’t ask how my first semester went, or make plans to see me so he could ask me this in person over a meal or something. I figured he’d call again, and when he didn’t—and when Noche Buena, the most family-infested of holidays, crept up on me faster than it ever did when I was a kid—I decided to just be pissed off.