7. Mariana
Mariana
I woke up in pain. Before I even open my eyes, before I move a single inch, I feel it. A dull, throbbing ache deep in my joints, like my bones are too tired to hold me together.
My fingers are stiff; my elbows burn the second I bend them. My body feels like a battlefield, and today, like every morning, I wake up on the losing side.
I begin to massage my hands, gently working my thumbs over my knuckles, wincing as the pain flares up. Mornings are the hardest.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, willing myself to move. Wishing I could just disappear under the covers. The warmth and safety of my bed are the only things that feel bearable right now, my only refuge from the chaos that is my life.
But this is normal now—pain is just part of my existence, something I wake up with, something I go to sleep with. I tell myself I’ve accepted it, that I’ve made peace with the way things are. But deep down, I know that’s a lie.
Because how do you ever truly accept that this is forever? That no matter how much I fight, or how much I push through, this will always be there, waiting for me? I keep telling everyone I’m okay, but damn…how much more can a girl take?
I like to think of myself as a strong person, but even I break sometimes. I wish I could just shut my mind off. Hit a switch. Unplug it like a faulty computer. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Hello, God? It’s me, Mariana. Any chance we can shut my brain down for a few hours? Just until I don’t feel like I’m drowning in my own thoughts? I could really use the break.
I hate this. I hate that my body has the power to keep me prisoner. That something as simple as getting out of bed feels like a battle I have to psych myself up for.
It wasn’t always like this. Before, I could roll out of bed without thinking twice—get dressed, start my day, and move through the world without my own body working against me. I used to run on coffee and ambition—late nights, long days, always on the go.
But now, even sitting up feels like a task that drains me before the day has even begun. The things that used to be effortless now take planning, energy, and strength I don’t always have.
But now is not the time for my body to be beating me up; I have too much to do. My mom needs me. She needs me at my best. And I don’t get to be weak when she needs me to be strong.
I force myself to sit up, blinking at the darkness of my room. The blackout curtains block out every hint of light, and for that, I’m grateful. Whoever invented them? My hero. I hope their side of the pillow is always cool.
I exhale, rubbing my temples, and try not to think about yesterday. But my mind goes there anyway. To him. Seba. My Seb. No. Not my Seb. Not anymore.
It was jarring, seeing him for the first time in years. Like a punch to the ribs, like something long-buried breaking open. It hit me harder than I expected. He looked good. Stronger. More sure of himself than when we were kids. Damn, time has been good to him.
I wonder if he hates me. The thought makes my chest feel tight. I wouldn’t blame him if he did, but damn, I hope he doesn’t.
The hot shower helped, but the ache is still there, lingering in my joints like a dull warning. It always does.
Still, I push through, moving slowly toward the kitchen, where soft sunlight filters through the blinds, casting warm stripes of gold across the counter.
I began making my favorite breakfast—harina de maiz. The scent of cinnamon and sugar fills the air as the ingredients blend together, and instantly, I feel a wave of comfort. It smells like home.
It reminds me of early mornings with my mom and dad. My mom at the stove, my dad making jokes over his coffee, both of them insisting we sit together at the table, no matter how busy the day ahead would be. "Family is everything," she always said.
And she made sure I believed it, too. I’m so glad she did. Because when Papi died, I had something to hold onto. I had memories—so many beautiful ones. Stories I could tell. Moments I could replay in my mind, in my heart. It hurt to lose him, but man, I was lucky to have him.
I sit at the kitchen table, my bowl warm in my hands. The house is quiet. Too quiet. What I would give to hear them laughing together in the living room again, giggling like two kids in love.
I take a spoonful of the harina de maiz and let the warmth spread through me, the familiar taste a tether to something safe. To a different time, a different life.
Isn’t it crazy how food can transport you? Food has always been an expression of love in my family.
In sadness, in celebration, in the everyday—my mom made a meal, and we all sat together. We laughed, we ate, and we felt her love pouring into us with every bite.
It’s no wonder I found my own love in baking. Maybe that’s why I was drawn to Ruth’s bakery in the first place. Maybe, without even realizing it, I was searching for a piece of home in The Rolling Pin. I can’t believe Ruth closed her shop.
She talked about retiring for years, but I never thought it would actually happen. Not really. I guess I just assumed she’d always be there.
The Rolling Pin, a permanent fixture in Lake City, and Ruth, standing behind the counter with flour on her apron and a knowing smile on her face. But things change. People leave. Even the ones who feel like they never would.
Sometimes, I wonder if she was training me to take over. If every lesson, every critique, every gentle nudge toward perfection was her way of saying: This could be yours someday.
She didn’t have kids; there was no one to pass The Rolling Pin down to. I can’t imagine her selling it to just anyone. Would I have taken it? I don’t know.
Back then, all I wanted was to leave, to see the world, to chase something bigger than Lake City. I thought staying would mean settling. But now…now, I’m not so sure.
And then my phone rings. I glance at the screen, Anna, grateful for the distraction.
“Hey, Anna, what’s up?”
“Ugh, we’re having a bake sale at the school, and since Ruth retired and closed down her shop, it’s been a complete nightmare. I spaced and forgot to place the order at the shop in the next town over, and now I’m screwed. Help. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll kiss your feet.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Please don’t do that. Actually, I’ll only help you if you promise NOT to do that.”
“You got it! No feet kissing. But I do feel bad, especially being so last minute. Is there any way I can repay you?”
I pretend to think for a moment. “Well…”
“Name your price.”
“Ajiaco from Tía María will do the trick.”
“Done. You’re easy.”
I smirk. “That’s not something I hear all the time.”
Anna snorts.
“How many cupcakes do you need, anyway?”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, hesitantly, she says, “So… don’t hate me, but we need 200 cupcakes.”
I nearly choke. “Two hundred?! By when?”
“…Tomorrow morning.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing my temples. “Ave María, Anna.” I should have asked for more than just ajiaco. Two hundred cupcakes? Dios mio.
“I knowwwww. I’m sorry. Butttt, you love me, and you’re doing it for the kids!! Go kids!”
“Yeah, yeah. Go kids, all right.” I sigh, pushing my bowl away. “Let me go so I can get started on this crap ton of cupcakes.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mari! I owe you—seriously. I’ll have Mami throw in a batch of arepas con queso.”
I smile. “Now that’s an acceptable form of payment. I’ll drop them off at your school in the morning. Don’t worry, I got you.”
“Perfect! Thanks again.”
As soon as I hang up, I scan the kitchen.
I open the fridge. The pantry. If I’m going to bake 200 cupcakes, I need to start like yesterday.
I decide on three flavors—funfetti, strawberries and cream, and chocolate s’mores.
I begin gathering the ingredients—flour, eggs, sugar, butter, sprinkles. I grab a bowl of strawberries, their rich red color making my mouth water. I reach for the cocoa powder to make the chocolate s’mores cupcakes.
And then, something unexpected happens. I feel excited. Baking has always had a way of calming me, of making me feel lighter. The way my mom used cooking to show love? That’s how I feel about baking.
I feel like a chemist, making sure I measure the perfect amount of each ingredient—too much or too little, and everything falls apart. But it’s more than chemistry, it’s art.
And Ruth? Ruth was a damn artist; she created the most beautiful cakes and pastries, little bursts of sunshine in every bite. She taught me everything I know about baking. I spent countless hours watching her decorate elaborate cakes, her hands moving with an ease that seemed impossible.
Until one day, she handed me an apron and said, “You’ve done plenty of sitting around. It’s time to get those hands working.” And that was that. I learned how to bake, how to create.
The Rolling Pin became my second home. I sometimes wonder if maybe she was preparing me for something more. Maybe she wanted me to take over, but I was too busy wanting to leave. And if I hadn’t? Would I have ever met Andrew? My stomach twists.
I shake my head, pushing the thought away, and start baking.
Hours later, I’m finally finished. The last cupcake is frosted, the last container sealed shut.
I take a step back, brushing my hands off on my apron, and survey my work. Rows and rows of perfectly frosted cupcakes sit neatly in their containers, the air still thick with the scents of vanilla, chocolate, and strawberries.
The funfetti cupcakes look like tiny bursts of celebration. The strawberries and cream ones have a delicate swirl of pink frosting, light and airy. And the chocolate s’mores cupcakes? Dark, rich, and topped with toasted marshmallows. They came out exactly how I wanted. Maybe even better.
I hope the kids light up when they see these cupcakes, that they take that first bite and let out that little hum of happiness. That’s the best part of baking, seeing people enjoy something I made with my own hands.