41. Mariana
Mariana
A nna’s apartment smelled like warm spices and home, not the home we grew up in—but hers.
A place she had made her own, with mismatched throw pillows on the couch, framed pictures of us on the walls, and candles that always smelled like sweet orange and agave.
It was cozy, lived-in, welcoming, yet something about being here tonight felt off. The air carried more weight than it should; it felt like I wasn’t just here for dinner.
She moved around the kitchen like she always did—effortless, focused, pulling ingredients from the fridge, chopping onions with quick, practiced movements. The sizzle of garlic hitting hot oil filled the space, mixing with the scent of stewed tomatoes and sofrito.
I sat at the kitchen table, watching her, and she watched me too.
Not obviously. Not in a way that would make me call her out for hovering, but she was watching, checking—making sure I was here, making sure I was eating, making sure I wasn’t just sitting in this chair pushing food around my plate like I had no appetite for anything anymore.
Anna was observant like that; she had always known when I was hurting, even when I wasn’t ready to talk about it, even when I wanted to pretend I was fine.
I sighed, shifting in my chair. "Anna, you didn’t have to do all this."
She shot me a look over her shoulder, unimpressed. "You haven’t been taking care of yourself."
"I’m fine."
Anna snorted, stirring the pot. "You look like you haven’t seen the sun in weeks, Mari."
I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue, because she wasn’t wrong.
She set two plates down on the table—arroz con gandules, grilled chicken, thick slices of avocado on the side. It smelled exactly like home—exactly like my mother’s cooking.
In an instant, the ache I had been trying so hard to ignore wedged itself between my ribs, pressing down hard. I gripped my fork, my throat suddenly too tight.
Anna sat across from me, quiet for once, just watching. She didn’t say anything when I hesitated. She just waited, and for some reason, that felt worse, so I took a bite, and then another.
I wasn’t sure if I was actually hungry or if I just wanted to prove to her that I wasn’t falling apart, that I could sit here and eat a plate of food like a normal person. For a moment, it worked…for a moment, we just…ate.
But suddenly, Anna pushed back from the table. I thought maybe she was going to grab more water or clear the plates. Instead, she reached into her bag, and pulled out something small.
At first, I didn’t recognize what it was, but then she set it down on the table between us, and everything inside me stilled. An envelope.
The paper was soft with wear, the edges slightly bent, like it had been held too many times, passed from one set of hands to another. My name was written on the front, in handwriting I would recognize anywhere. The air shifted. My throat tightened. I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.
Anna exhaled softly, her voice quieter now. "Your mom wrote you a letter."
Everything stilled; my breath caught in my throat. "What?"
Anna’s eyes stayed steady on mine. "Sebastian gave it to me. She wrote it before she passed, and told him to give it to you when you needed it."
Something in my stomach twisted—sharp, unrelenting. I swallowed hard. "Why didn’t he tell me?"
Anna didn’t hesitate. "Would you have opened it?"
I felt the answer stick in my throat, thick and heavy. No, I wouldn’t have. I wasn’t sure I could even open it now.
My hands trembled as I reached for it, my fingers tracing over the familiar loops and curves of my mother’s handwriting—“For my Mariana.”
The air in the room thinned. Tears blurred my vision before I even worked up the courage to slide my thumb under the seal. "I'm going to go upstairs and let you read this," Anna says, setting the letter down in front of me.
I don’t move, don’t say a word. A moment later, I hear her footsteps retreating, leaving me alone with the envelope, the one I’ve been too afraid to open.
My fingers hover over it, hesitation curling tight in my chest. But then I slide my thumb under the seal, peeling it open with slow, deliberate care.
The paper inside is smooth beneath my fingertips, the ink slightly smudged in places, like it’s been touched too many times. My gaze catches on the familiar loops and curves of her writing, a sharp ache blooms in my chest.
I blink hard, once, twice, then take a slow breath and start to read.
My Mari,
If you’re reading this, it means I am gone.
And for that, my love, I am so sorry. If love alone could have kept me here, I would have stayed forever.
I would have fought the whole damn world just to have more time with you—to see you smile, to hear your laugh, to hold your hand just a little longer.
But time doesn’t bargain, mi vida. Time doesn’t care how tightly we hold on, how much we beg, how desperately we wish for just one more day.
I know you, Mariana. I know you better than anyone.
I was the first to hold you, the first to love you, the first to whisper your name against my heart.
I have seen every piece of you—the bright, the stubborn, the fierce, the tender.
You are made of fire and softness, of wild storms and warm sunshine. You are the best thing I ever did.
I also know how hard you fight to be strong.
My girl, always carrying the weight alone, always trying to prove that you don’t need anyone to hold you up.
You have always been so determined, so fiercely independent, and so afraid to need.
You think if you don’t let yourself lean too much, if you don’t love too deeply, if you don’t hold on too tightly, it won’t hurt as much when it’s gone.
But love doesn’t work like that, mi corazón.
Love is meant to be held with both hands.
It is meant to be felt fully—without hesitation, without fear.
Love is the only thing worth being afraid of, and the only thing worth choosing anyway.
I know you’re scared. I know how loss has shaped you, how it has made you wary, made you build walls you think will keep you safe.
But Mari, life without love isn’t safe—it’s empty.
It’s the kind of quiet that lingers in the spaces where love should be.
It’s the ache that doesn’t go away, the loneliness that settles in when you’ve spent too long pushing people away, and I never wanted that for you.
Loving you and your papi was the easiest, most natural thing in the world—like breathing, like the sun rising each morning without question.
It was never a choice I had to make; it was simply who I was, wrapped up in the love I had for my family.
That kind of love, mi vida, the kind that settles into your bones and fills the spaces between heartbeats, is meant to be cherished, not feared.
I know love can feel uncertain. I know it can feel fragile, it can feel like something that can be taken away in an instant.
But that’s not a reason to hold back. That’s not a reason to shut it out.
Love isn’t about guarantees—it’s about choosing it anyway, about letting it shape you, letting it remind you that even in the hardest moments, you are not alone.
So don’t let fear steal what is meant to be yours. Love with your whole heart, mi amor, the way you were meant to. Because if there is one thing I am certain of, it’s this—you have a heart made for love, and the world is better when you share it.
I am with you. Always.
Con todo mi amor,
Mami
I’m shaking. My hands, my breath, my entire fucking world. Because she knew, Mami had always known.
I spent so long convincing myself that pushing people away would protect me. That if I didn’t let myself love too deeply, I wouldn’t have to grieve when it was gone.
That if I held my heart close enough, tight enough, no one could ever take it from me. But now? Now, I see the truth.
Because my mom loved me fearlessly. She had loved me without hesitation, without fear, without pulling back to protect herself. She had loved with her whole heart—so much that even now, even in the unbearable absence of her, the love was still here.
It hadn’t disappeared, it hadn’t faded, it hadn’t died with her. Love was never something to be afraid of. I can hear her voice in my head, unwavering and certain, just as it always was when she spoke about love, when she spoke about my father—“Your papi was the love of my life, Mari.”
I can still see it, the way her whole face would soften when she said it.
The way she would smile, tucking her hair behind her ear like she was seventeen again, falling for him for the first time.
“Was it always easy?” she’d say, shaking her head.
“No, mi amor. But was it worth it? Every damn time.”
She had loved him like breathing. She had loved him even when it was hard, even when it hurt. She had loved him even when they fought, even when they frustrated each other, even when life pulled them in different directions—because she had always, always chosen love.
When we lost him, when grief clawed its way into every part of our lives, she had never once regretted it, she had never once wished she had loved him less, she had never let fear steal her love away.
My breath catches, sharp and uneven, as I press the letter to my chest. It shakes against me, the paper crinkling beneath my fingers as something inside me cracks wide open.
Mami had always told me I was strong, but I wasn’t strong when I let fear make choices for me. I wasn’t strong when I walked away from the man I loved, convincing myself it was safer than losing him.
I had let fear control me. I had let it steal my love away, but love was never something to run from. My mom knew it, my dad knew it, and deep down, I had always known it, too.
I know what I have to do. I have to fight for the man I never stopped loving. I have to fight for Sebastian.
I have to choose love, even if it scares me, even if it makes my hands shake.
Even if it means stepping into something unknown, something vulnerable, something that could hurt, because my mom was right…love is always worth the risk.