19. Chapter 17
X iomara
It’s hard to believe we are gathered for Luisa’s funeral. Even now, as I sit on a chapel pew between my mother and Zasha, it’s his hand that keeps me grounded. His fingers are curled gently over mine, warm and still.
The service is simple, and the pews are filled with people from every corner of her life. Old neighbors, women she used to know from various groups, and a few quiet men from my father’s world, whose eyes are unexpectedly red.
Isabel, her daughter, sits in the front row beside her father, who wears an all-black suit and the blank expression of a man who has survived a hundred gunfights but doesn’t know how to outlive love.
The altar is lined with soft white flowers. I arranged them myself yesterday — orchids, lilies, and a single cluster of pressed forget-me-nots.
Luisa’s favorite.
The scent is sweet, almost overwhelmingly so, clinging to the air like her memory, which will never fade from our minds.
As the priest begins to speak, I barely register his words.
And although my eyes remain on the polished wood of the coffin, my mind drifts to her laughter whenever I did something silly and to her scowl when she caught me sneaking cookies.
To her lectures in the kitchen while she stirred rice, scolding me in Spanish but never really angry.
I remember the nights she’d lie beside me when I was sick, and my parents were away. She will hum lullabies until the fever breaks.
Besides my parents, she was my other safe place.
Even when the rest of the world felt sharp and distant, Luisa made me feel seen.
Not as a Delgado. Not as someone to be protected or shaped into something useful.
Just as a girl with messy hair, too much emotion, and a habit of asking too many questions.
I blink, and my mother gently brushes her hand over my arm, a gesture of comfort that I accept without hesitation.
But it’s Zasha’s grip that steadies me. He hasn’t let go once, and I feel grateful for his strength. The priest finishes the final blessing, and Isabel stands first, walking slowly toward the casket.
One by one, we follow.
When it’s my turn, I step forward, telling Zasha that I will like to say my final goodbye alone. The walk feels longer than it is, and my legs tremble, but I don’t stop.
In my hand, I hold some tiny pressed forget-me-nots wrapped in tissue.
Luisa used to keep a bunch of them between the pages of the books she read. Said they reminded her of her childhood, of simple things, of promises kept.
As I reach the coffin, I see her through the open lid. She looks… peaceful. Her hair has been combed back, and she is wearing her favorite earrings. Along with that same tiny smile she always had when she was waiting for me to confess something she already knew.
My throat tightens, but I lean forward, placing the flower on her chest, and whisper, “Thank you for never giving up on me.”
My hands shake as I pull back.
Zasha is already there. He wraps his arm around me without hesitation, steadying me as I turn away. I don’t break down, but I lean into him, and he holds the weight like it’s nothing.
Back at our seats, I close my eyes for a moment. The world is still turning, but something in me feels quieter now, and a little less broken.
Zasha’s hand finds mine again. This time, I lace our fingers together without thinking. And for the first time in over a week, I let myself breathe.
When we arrive home, I sit at the edge of Zasha’s bed, still wearing the black dress from the funeral.
The fabric clings to my knees, heavy with the day's burdens.
I remain here, staring into nothingness.
My thoughts swirl like a slow, drifting fog.
Watching Luisa lowered into the ground made it clear that I will never see her again.
The door opens behind me, and I hear soft footsteps.
Zasha.
He crosses the room quietly and sits beside me. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay; he knows I’m not. I’m just trying to hold it together. Yet the grief overwhelms me, and as he pulls me into his arms, a sob escapes my throat before I can stop it. Then another. And another.
I lean forward, pressing my face into his chest, and the tears flow out—raw and unstoppable.
Zasha doesn’t try to quiet me.
He sits with me in his arms. His hand settles gently on my back, warm and steady.
No pressure. No expectation. Just presence.
I don’t know how long I cry.
But eventually, the sobs slow. The weight of sadness shifts from unbearable to just... heaviness. When I finally lift my head, my voice is hoarse and cracking.
“When I was younger, she was with me more often, my mother, you know?” I whisper.
Zasha’s gaze is on me, quiet and open.
“She was strict, boy, was she strict,” I say, letting out a breath that’s half a laugh. “If I rolled my eyes, she’d flick the back of my head so fast it made me see stars.”
He gives a small smile, waiting.
“But she loved me.” My voice softens. “Fiercely. Unconditionally. Even when I was impossible.”
I laugh, wet and shaky. “Once, I got stuck under one of the black town cars. I was hiding from my piano teacher — the one with the bad breath and zero tolerance for creative improvisation.”
Zasha chuckles under his breath.
“She crawled under after me. Got her entire blouse caught on the axle. Ripped it clean in half. She still marched me into the lesson with grease on her face and said, ‘Play like your life depends on it, nina, because mine just did.’”
He huffs a laugh, tilting his head slightly.
“And another time,” I say, wiping tears from my cheek, “I climbed the mango tree in her backyard because she said I couldn’t. She turned her back for ten minutes, and there I was — stuck, dangling, screaming bloody murder like a cat.”
Zasha raises an eyebrow. “You? Stuck?”
“I was eight and determined,” I say with a faint grin. “Luisa dragged a ladder from the garage, climbed it in her house slippers, and scolded me the entire way down. Swore she’d never let me near another tree again.”
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to blink back the sting.
“She was fearless,” I murmur. “And full of fire. She could look my father in the eye and make him shrink without saying a word.”
Zasha lets out a low breath of agreement.
“She deserved more time,” I whisper. “And I should’ve spent more time with her.”
He turns slightly, taking my hand. His thumb brushes across my knuckles — a simple touch, but it says more than words ever could.
“She knew you loved her,” he says.
I nod slowly, letting the silence stretch.
Zasha watches me for a long moment, his expression softening at the corners.
And then he smiles.
Crooked. Warm.
The kind of smile I haven’t seen from him, and I doubt anyone has. It tugs at something in my chest. Not grief, not loss, but hope. Hope that he sees me and feels something for me
I lean my shoulder into his just slightly, and he doesn’t pull away. For the first time in weeks, the air between us isn’t heavy. It’s still. Gentle. Shared. And somehow, that feels like the first step back to the light.
Days later, I’m curled up on the sofa in the sunroom, my fingers wrapped around a mug of coffee, the morning light spilling over the floor like gold.
Zasha walks in.
No announcement. No heavy boots or sharp tension trailing behind him. Just him. He pauses when he sees me. For a moment, I think he might change direction. That maybe we’ll slip back into that careful dance we’ve been doing before Luisa’s death.
But he doesn’t, instead, he walks into the room, grabs his own mug, and sits across from me without a word. I wait for him to look away like he always does. He doesn’t.
His eyes meet mine and hold, steady and sure, until I feel my heartbeat flutter in my throat. Then he lifts his mug and takes a sip, like he didn’t just melt some part of me with a single look.
I glance down at my coffee, trying not to smile.
Later that day, I hear him humming. It’s soft, almost absentminded — just a few notes under his breath while he looks over something at the kitchen table.
It’s nothing. Barely a sound.
But it’s the first time I’ve heard him do anything that sounds remotely like contentment. I stand in the hallway for a second too long, listening. Then I move away before he notices me watching.
At dinner, we don’t talk much, but it’s not stiff like before. The silence stretches between us like a blanket, not a wall. He brushes past me at the counter when he’s cleaning up, his hand grazing my lower back as he reaches for a towel.
It’s a small, unintentional touch but it makes me freeze in my chair, and I realize something I hadn’t before.
My closed off fake husband is cracking open. Not wide, not all at once — but just enough for light to get in. I turn to look at him and my heart gives a small leap.
He’s been here for me. Not because he has to be, but because he chooses to be.
And for the first time in our marriage, I know without a single doubt that this strange, quiet thing growing between us will become something real.
And I will be more than his wife in name.