Chapter 4
RAUL
A seagull cries over the turquoise waves crashing against the shore. It's been three weeks since she left us. This stretch of Miami Beach, otherwise known as Virginia Key, was her favorite escape from the chemo fog and city grind. The water stays warm. The horizon feels endless.
Dad shuffles up through the sand, two cold beers sweating in his hands. He tries to pass me one.
"Sorry, Mijo." He shrugs, chugs half of the first beer, then sips the second. His eyes stay red-rimmed and distant.
He's been a ghost since the funeral. Barely home. And when he is, it's beer or rum talking, not Dad. I'm just a kid, but I know when he's not really there. His body stands on this sand, but his soul drifts somewhere between Calle Ocho and Mom's empty side of the bed.
I shrug off my backpack. My fingers shake as I unzip it.
The plastic bag inside feels too light, too final.
This is her. Our fierce, curly-haired queen reduced to gray dust. We saved vials in little bullet pendant urns to wear close.
Her last wish was clear — the rest scatters here.
Let the winds carry her free, straight to heaven.
"Here, Dad." I pass him the bag of Mom's ashes. "I wrote her something."
I dig deeper into my backpack and pull out the crumpled paper from the bottom. I've never been organized. I unfold it with trembling hands. My voice cracks from the first word.
"Mom, I don't know how we're supposed to keep going without you.
You were what made our family. Our rock.
Our everything. And even though you're gone, I feel you everywhere.
Your hand steady on my shoulder when I'm scared.
Your voice echoing in my mind, replacing my own.
I know you'll never really leave. We love you, Mom. We miss you so much. And…"
A sob rips through me. Words drown. I crumple to my knees. Sand bites my skin.
"Son. It's okay. It's okay." Dad's voice breaks. One tear cuts through the salt and stubble on his cheek. He kisses my forehead fiercely, then cradles the bag like a baby. "Mi amor, I'm sorry." He presses a gentle kiss to the plastic. His shoulders shake. "Forgive me. I'm so damn sorry."
I've never seen my dad so vulnerable. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen him cry over the years. He's always been strong, masculine, cold, and guarded. He’s the kind of man who fits every stereotype of a traditional Cuban father. Ernesto Javier Alvarez stands just under six feet tall with a solid, imposing build. Not fat, not muscular, but heavy enough to look intimidating. Tattoos cover his body, and he has a way of making almost everyone around him uneasy. Seeing him like this, so broken and raw, is eye-opening in a way I’ll never forget.
He turns and scatters some of the ashes along the shoreline, his mouth moving in a low whisper I can't quite hear.
For a moment, it feels like he's speaking to Mom, promising her what neither of us can promise the other, reassuring her the way a husband does when the world has already fallen apart.
With the bag still half full, he hands it to me.
"Your turn to say goodbye, Mijo." A weak grin touches his face.
I look down at the bag, then slowly step toward the water, emptying the rest of her into the foam as the tide slides in and out around my feet.
My own hands seem far away, like they belong to someone else.
The whole thing feels surreal, as if I'm watching myself from above, from some place where grief can't quite reach me.
Quietly, I whisper a prayer for my mother's peace.
My father draws me into an embrace before we walk back to the car in silence, side by side, carrying the kind of emptiness that words would only make smaller.
Car loaded up, we pull up to Aunt Val's. Diego's already outside, waiting to help with the bags. He nods at us in greeting, trying to act cool, but his grin is stretched so wide it almost gives him away. We're going to be staying here for a while.
Dad's been struggling to motivate himself to go to work, and now he's lost his job. We got evicted from our house. The house I was raised in. The house Mom lived in and loved.
My chest tightens, heat rushing up my neck as tears threaten to spill. I force them back and smile at my cousin. I just hope Aunt Val can knock some sense into her little brother.
My olive-green suitcase trails behind me while the rest of our life gets carried inside in bags.
"Come put your stuff in my room, man!" Diego says, already tugging me toward his bedroom.
The house is small, not much bigger than ours. Two bedrooms, so I'm not even sure how the sleeping arrangements are going to work. I'm just grateful we have somewhere to exist.
When I step into Diego's room, I notice a foldable cot set up beside the bed, topped with a big pillow, two plush blankets, and a quilt.
"That's Ma's handiwork," Diego says, nodding toward the setup.
I nod and set my things down.
Then the silence stretches between us.
"Do you want to go for a walk?" Diego asks at last.
"Sure," I say quietly.
My whole world feels like it's collapsed in on itself.
We step into the kitchen and find Dad and Aunt Val deep in conversation at the table, their heads bent together over half-finished beers. The room smells faintly of garlic, coffee gone cold, and ripe citrus. When they see us, both of them go still.
"Hey, Ma, we're gonna walk around the block," Diego says, tugging at a curl near his temple like he always does when he's trying to seem relaxed.
"Okay, Mijo. Be safe, and be home before it gets dark," Aunt Val says, her voice soft but tired.
Dad doesn't even look up. He's still wearing his wedding ring, the gold band catching the light every time he moves his hand.
I wish he would look at me. Really look at me.
We've barely spoken since Mom died. Every time I see him now, it feels like he's farther away than if he'd left the house entirely.
He isn't living, not really. He's just… moving through the hours, one drink at a time.
Without lifting his gaze, he reaches for his beer and takes a long swig. His jaw tightens, shoulders hunched in on themselves like he's trying to make his body smaller than the grief inside it.
My stomach twists. I barely recognize him anymore.
The Miami heat smothers us the moment we step outside, heavy and wet, like the air itself is pressing a hand against my chest. The sidewalk radiates warmth through the bottoms of my shoes.
Somewhere nearby, a dog barks behind a chain-link fence, music plays low from an open window, and the sweet stink of overripe mangoes drifts from a yard across the street.
It's the kind of heat that makes the neighborhood feel like it's holding its breath.
"Want to go shoot some hoops or something?" Diego asks, grabbing his basketball from the side yard.
He gives it a light dribble before tossing it in my direction.
I catch it with a low whistle, then bounce it once against the pavement.
"Hell yeah, man. I'm down." I could use the distraction.
We cut around the block to a rundown park where everything looks sun-bleached and tired.
The playground paint is chipped down to the metal in places, and the plastic slides have faded under years of Miami heat, their bright colors worn down to a nostalgic blur.
On the other side of the worn-down field is a small cement court with a single basketball hoop.
The chain net hangs broken on two hinges, but it still works if you're willing to pretend it does.
Diego dribbles once, shoots, and misses.
A loud whistle echoes from behind us.
We turn to see two guys about our age, maybe a little older, crossing the field from the opposite side.
"Hey, man, can we play?" one of them asks, chin tipped up like he's trying to look tougher than he is.
There's something almost intimidating about the way he carries himself.
He points to his friend. "I'm Ty. This is Michael. "
"DJ," Diego says. "This is Raul." He bounces the basketball over to Ty.
"Around the World?" Ty asks, already shooting toward the basket.
"Hell yeah," Diego says.