It was barely 9 AM when your mom knocked on your door and said the words you dreaded: “Get dressed. You and Anahi are going to Abuelita’s today.”

You groaned instantly. “Mom, please. Anyone but her.”

“No excuses,” she said firmly, tossing your backpack at you. “She hasn’t seen you in weeks. Be nice. And don’t text me until after 5.”

You dragged your feet into the hallway, finding Anahi in the kitchen already sipping iced coffee with her nails freshly done and her phone in hand — or at least it was until she heard the news.

“Wait, what?” she said, eyes wide. “I thought we were going to brunch! You’re sending us to Grandma’s?”

Mom only nodded with a tight smile. “Have fun. And no complaining. She loves you guys.”

“She doesn’t even have WiFi,” you muttered.

“Or snacks. Or AC,” Anahi added, dead serious. “And her house smells like… mothballs and… sadness.”

Before either of you could protest more, you were both in the car, mom’s playlist blaring while you exchanged dramatic looks like soldiers being shipped off to war.

Abuelita lived in an old one-story house with floral curtains, plastic-wrapped couches, and a billion religious statues in every corner. The moment you stepped inside, it hit: the WiFi-less, ice-cold air of pure boredom.

“Hola mijos,” she said sweetly, giving Anahi a strong hug and ruffling your hair. “Phones in the basket.”

“Wait—what?” you blinked.

“No phones,” she said with a smile that somehow wasn’t a smile. “We’re going to spend time together.”

Anahi gave you a silent scream behind her grandma-hug and mouthed, We’re doomed.

She wasn’t wrong.

Within the hour, Anahi was stuck helping Abuelita make tamales (“Why is the dough wet?” she whispered), and you were forced to dust her giant collection of weird porcelain dolls that seemed to blink when you weren’t looking.

No music. No Netflix. No phone. No signal. Just an endless loop of “Turn that down,” “Sit up straight,” and “Why don’t you call me more?”

“I feel like I’m in a horror movie,” you whispered during a bathroom break, where you and Anahi hid for ten minutes just to feel normal.

“I’ve aged ten years,” she muttered, using her reflection in the mirror to fix her bun. “When we get out of here, I’m posting a ten-photo dump and tagging it ‘survived.’”

But by the time 5 PM rolled around and you were released from Abuelita’s clutches, both of you ran to the car like you’d just escaped a haunted house.