1. Mariana #2
That’s how she met my dad—going head to head, and of course, she beat him.
Every time he tells the story, he grins and says she slapped down the winning domino with a sharp clack , leaned back in her chair with her arms crossed, a smug grin on her face as the whole table erupted in laughter.
Then she smirked at him and said, “Ay bendito, papito, pa’ esto hay que tener talento, y tú…
bueno, mejor suerte pa’ la próxima." He swears that was the moment he knew she was going to be his wife.
He always loved how competitive she got when they played games.
But if you ask my mom, she’ll say he really fell for her after tasting her pastelillos.
Pastelillos have a golden, flaky crust and can be filled with all kinds of things, the most common being carne molida—bursting with spices, garlic, olives, and onions. She swears that after his first bite, she saw it in his eyes. He was in love.
And honestly? I believe her. No one makes pastelillos like my mom. I guess the saying, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” rang true for my dad.
My mom’s laughter pulls me from my thoughts, and she says, “I can’t make any promises, mija. Ya tú sabes, I can’t go too easy on them!”
I can picture her smile as she says this. She’s probably standing at her kitchen counter, her signature cup of coffee in hand—black, with one packet of Sweet’N Low. Like me, my mom is a small woman, barely five feet tall, but she packs a punch. She’s the perfect mix of hard and soft, firm but fair.
She was always clear about the rules of the house and about the expectations she had. But not once did she ever make me feel like I couldn’t turn to her. No matter how badly I screwed up—and believe me, I’ve made plenty of mistakes—she was always there.
She’s been there for everything, every crush, every heartbreak.
She’d laugh with me, cry with me, and spend nights teaching me how to cook.
We’ve had more game nights than I can count, and of course, I can’t forget the evenings we spent watching telenovelas with crackers and cafecito, dipping them in just the way she likes.
She truly is my best friend. I couldn’t dream up a better mom even if I tried. I swallow hard. So why have I hidden so much from her?
I just don’t want to break her heart. And I guess…I don’t see the point in rehashing the past. Andrews gone. He’s never coming back. He can’t hurt me anymore.
Maybe if I don’t talk about it, if I don’t turn it into something bigger than it already was, I can pretend it never happened.
Maybe then, I can finally move.
I sit at my desk, sketching the cake my client envisioned for her daughter’s quinceanera.
I love event planning, but my favorite part is when I get to create beautiful desserts.
Tapping my pen against my sketchbook, I glance around my office.
Pictures of my friends from back home sit on my desk, a framed photo of my parents hangs beside my degree, and a small Puerto Rican flag rests beside my jar of pens. I miss them all so much.
When I moved to Seattle, I was seeking out adventure and change.
I didn’t think I’d feel this alone. But after Andrew and I married, he made sure to pull me even further away from everyone.
Before I knew it, calls home became rare, and messages went unanswered.
Leaning back in my chair, I take a sip of my now-cold coffee and wince.
I’ll have to microwave it for the third time today.
After my morning meeting, I’ve been running around making sure every event I’m planning has everything it needs.
One thing about me? There won’t be a damn thing missing to ruin anyone’s event—not on my watch.
I wish I had more dessert clients, but that’s not where the real demand is.
So, instead, I plan weddings, birthdays, baby showers, and even corporate events—whatever people need.
And I’m good at it. But baking? Creating something beautiful with my own hands?
That’s where my heart is. Cakes, cupcakes, croissants, macarons—I love making it all.
The joint pain from my lupus makes baking harder than it should be—most days, more than I care to admit. But if I had the chance? I’d spend every day covered in flour and sugar, lost in the rhythm of creating something beautiful.
A light tap on my door pulls me from my thoughts. I look up to find Josephine, the owner of Glamour & Grace Events, standing in the doorway. “Time for lunch,” she says, flashing a friendly grin.
I’ve been working for Josephine for seven years now.
When we met, I was 24—wide-eyed, lost, and stuck bartending while Andrew pressured me to quit.
I walked into my interview with no experience, just the argument that bartending had trained me to handle people and keep them happy.
She took a chance on me when she didn’t have to, and I swore I wouldn’t let her regret it.
Over the years, she’s tried to build a friendship with me, but I always kept her at a distance. Andrew hated the idea of anyone knowing too much about our lives, so I made sure to keep everyone at arm’s length. Before I get the chance to speak, she beats me to it,
“I’m not taking no for an answer today, Mari. We’re going to lunch. You’ve been killing it all day, and I promise you, that sketch can wait.”
I look up. Her arms crossed, and her left eyebrow was raised. Yeah, she means business. She knows I’m a total workaholic.
That promise I made years ago? I meant it.
Every single day since I stepped through these doors, I’ve busted my ass to prove she was right to take a chance on me.
Even now, seven years later, I can’t turn that part of me off.
It’s just not who I am. When I commit to something, I give it everything I have.
I sigh heavily. “I really, really wanted to finish this sketch so I can send it over to the client for approval.”
“You have time, Mari. Everyone needs to eat—including you. Now get your ass up. I’m starving.”
The hostess ushers us inside, the scent of garlic, oregano, and freshly baked pita bread immediately wrapping around me like a familiar embrace. We shake off the rain, close our umbrellas, and place them on the stand by the door, droplets slipping from the fabric and pooling on the tiled floor.
I slip off my jacket, the warmth of the restaurant a stark contrast to the damp chill outside. As I settle into my seat, I take in everything I love about this place. The food is to die for, but it’s the warmth of the atmosphere that keeps me coming back.
The white and blue walls, reminiscent of the Greek islands, are adorned with framed paintings of Santorini sunsets and fishing boats bobbing in sapphire waters.
Grape leaves and olive branches weave through wooden trellises overhead, casting delicate shadows against the ceiling.
Small potted herbs—basil, rosemary, and oregano—sit on the windowsills, filling the space with a fresh, earthy aroma.
Every table is dressed with crisp white linens, a single candle flickering at the center, its soft glow reflecting off polished silverware.
The gentle hum of traditional Greek music plays in the background, the faint strumming of a bouzouki and melodic voices weaving through the air like a comforting lullaby.
Waiters glide between tables, balancing platters of sizzling souvlaki, golden spanakopita, and steaming bowls of avgolemono soup. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses blends seamlessly into the ambiance, making the place feel both intimate and lively.
As a foodie and an event planner, I live for a beautiful atmosphere—the perfect balance of aesthetics and experience. That’s why I come to Mykonos Taverna at least three times a week.
Across from me, Josephine watches me, contemplative. This is how people have been looking at me for the last six months—waiting for the breakdown that isn’t coming.
“How are you?” she asks.
“Fine. I’m doing fine.” My voice is steady.
She narrows her eyes. “You’ve said that word so many times, it’s lost all meaning. Are you sure you’re fine, Mari? I know I didn’t know Andrew very well, but I want you to know I’m here for you. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
These are the moments I dread. The moments I try to avoid. How do I say I feel relieved my husband is dead without sounding like a monster? She doesn’t know our history. She wouldn’t understand.
“I really am doing fine, Jo.” I keep my tone warm and grateful. “Thank you for everything. Not just in the last six months, but in the last seven years. Losing Andrew was hard—of course, it was. But every day, I get a little better. A little more at peace with this new chapter of my life.”
I offer her my warmest smile, hoping it conceals my hidden truths. She isn’t fully convinced. I can see it in her expression. I’m not the grieving widow people expect. But she respects my privacy enough not to push.
The waiter sets our food down, and I exhale in relief. It was a perfect, much-needed interruption. The smell of souvlaki makes my mouth water, and I take my first bite.
I guess I was hungrier than I thought.
After work, the rain finally stopped, so I walked home. I love taking walks after it rains—it’s like the world has been rinsed clean. The air is crisp against my skin, cool and fresh. But as I near my building, something feels off, like the world has tilted just slightly out of place.
The clicking of my shoes against the pavement pounds like a drumbeat in my ears.
My heart slams against my ribs. My breath feels too shallow, like I can’t pull in enough air.
I don’t know why I feel like this. I just do.
Something's very wrong. Was it the food?
Am I coming down with food poisoning? Is it my lupus? Is something happening to me?
I quickened my steps, and my condo building came into view.
I just need to get upstairs. The doorman greets me, but I barely hear him over the rush of blood in my ears.
I manage a quick, distracted hello before racing to the elevator.
The ride is agonizingly slow. Every stop, every ding feels like torture.
Upstairs, I take a few steadying breaths. My clothes feel suffocating, so I strip them off, kick off my shoes, and pin up my hair. I walk to the kitchen, splash cold water on my face, then pour myself a glass of wine.
I sink into the couch, taking a long sip. My heartbeat slows, but the feeling lingers.
Something is wrong.
And then my phone rings—shattering everything.