13. Mariana
Mariana
T he hospital smells like antiseptic and sorrow, a scent that clings to my skin, settles in my lungs, and makes it impossible to breathe without feeling like I’m drowning.
I hate coming here. I hate the constant hum of suffering, the quiet sobs of loved ones who have already begun mourning, the sterile white walls that feel so cold, so impersonal, so final. But I come anyway. Because if my mom is here, then this is exactly where I need to be.
The doctors have told me to prepare myself, but there’s no preparing for something like this. No way to brace for the inevitable, to soften the crushing weight of reality.
They don’t know how much time we have left—days, weeks, months. There are no promises, no guarantees.
Just borrowed moments slipping through my fingers faster than I can hold onto them, and man, I really want to hold onto them. I want to freeze time, to bottle every second, to keep her here forever. I’ll never stop needing her.
I step into her room, my sneakers squeaking softly against the linoleum, announcing my arrival. The TV hums in the background, an old telenovela playing at low volume.
My mother is curled beneath a hospital blanket, smaller than I remember, frail in a way that makes my chest ache.
The hospital gown hangs loose on her frame, her once full cheeks now sunken, her skin dull with exhaustion. When she notices me, her eyes light up, and for a moment, she looks just like my mom again.
"Hola, mija. There’s my precious girl." Her voice is thin and fragile.
I force a smile, swallowing against the knot forming in my throat. “Bendición, Mami.” I whisper, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’ve missed you.”
I take my usual seat beside her bed, my fingers instinctively reaching for hers. Her hand is cold, frail, but she squeezes mine gently like she always does. Like she’s still her, even when her body is betraying her.
"How are you, Mija? How’s the bakery?" she asks, her thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles.
I take a shaky breath, trying to find some semblance of normalcy in this moment. “It’s going well, finally coming together.”
She smiles. "That’s wonderful, sweetheart. And how are things with Sebastian? He’s been helping you, right?"
I let out a small, breathy laugh, already knowing where this is going. “Yeah, he’s been helping a lot. We actually went cliff diving last week.”
Her eyes widen, and she gasps, bringing a hand to her chest. "Cliff diving? Ave María purísima!”
A real, genuine laugh escapes me for the first time all day. “Sorry, Mami. I was scared out of my mind, but honestly? It was fun.”
She shakes her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "That Sebastian… I’m going to have a long talk with him next time he visits. That boy has always had a way of convincing you to try new things."
I blink, confused. “Wait… when does he visit you?”
My mom tilts her head at me, amusement dancing in her tired eyes. “All the time, mija.”
I sit up straighter. “Sebastian comes here?”
She nods, smiling fondly. "Oh yes. He brings me a cafecito con pan de mallorca, and we catch up. I’ve been trying to coax the bochinche out of him about what’s going on between you two, but that boy can keep a secret."
Something in my chest clenches painfully, I had no idea. All this time, I thought I was navigating this grief alone.
But Sebastian? He’s been here. He’s been showing up, for my mom, for me, even when I didn’t know it, even when I didn’t ask, even when I never once deserved it.
I shake my head, trying to push past the lump in my throat. “Mom, there’s no bochinche,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Nothing has happened between us. Just friends, remember?”
My mom hums, unconvinced. "But you want something to happen, yes?"
I groan, leaning back in my chair. “I don’t know, Mami.”
She narrows her eyes, tilting her head. "Don’t lie to me, Mariana. A mother can always tell."
I let out a heavy breath, staring up at the ceiling wishing the answer would be written there.
“I went through a lot with Andrew,” I admit, my voice quieter now.
“And even though I know Sebastian would never do the things he did… I can’t help but shut down when I think about what we could become. I can’t help but feel…”
My mother’s voice is gentle but firm. “Scared?”
I flinch. The word buries itself deep in my chest, hitting like a truth I’ve been trying to avoid. Scared…I’m terrified.
Deep down, I’ve always known that everything Andrew did to hurt me left scars I couldn’t fully see—wounds that ran deeper than I ever wanted to admit.
But between his death, my lupus diagnosis, and now my mother’s illness, life hasn’t exactly given me the space to breathe, let alone heal. I’ve been surviving, not thriving. Existing, not living.
Now, being back home, being around Sebastian, sitting here with my mother, I’m finally feeling it. The pain, the weight of it. The way it’s shaped me into someone I don’t quite recognize anymore.
I look at my mom, tears blurring my vision. “Yes,” I whisper. “I’m scared, Mami.”
Her expression softens, her eyes filled with sorrow—a sorrow I know she wishes she could take from me. "Mamita, I love you, and I’m so sorry for everything you went through. You’ve carried more than anyone ever should."
She squeezes my hand, her grip weak but still full of the same warmth, the same unwavering love she’s always had for me.
"That man… ese asqueroso… he wasn’t a good man, ripping you away from your friends and family the way that he did.
But Sebastian?" She shakes her head. "That boy has loved you since you were kids.
He has always looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky.
Like you, mi princesa, are the sun his world revolves around. "
A sob threatens to break free, but I force it down, my throat burning—Mami doesn’t know everything.
She knows Andrew isolated me, that he slowly cut me off from my friends and family, that he made me feel like I had no one but him. She knows how he chipped away at my confidence, how he controlled every aspect of my life until I wasn’t sure who I was anymore. But she doesn’t know the worst of it.
She doesn’t know about the bruises, the apologies that came too late, the way I convinced myself that if I just loved him enough, he would stop.
She doesn’t know that there were nights when I was too afraid to move, too afraid to breathe the wrong way, too afraid of what would set him off next.
She already carries enough guilt, enough pain, enough regret for not being able to protect me from the things she does know—if she ever found out the truth, it would break her.
So I let her believe that Andrew’s worst crime was keeping me away. That the damage he did was only emotional. That the scars he left behind are invisible. It’s easier that way.
Her grip on my hand tightens, and I blink rapidly, forcing back the flood of emotion threatening to consume me.
“You know what your gut is telling you, Mija. You just need to trust yourself.”
I bite my lip, looking up, trying desperately to blink away the tears. I want to believe her. I want to trust myself.
But how can I? How can I trust myself when I chose Andrew? When I stayed with him? When I convinced myself for years that it was love? I made the wrong choice once. What if I do it again? What if I take a risk, go heart-first into this with Sebastian… and it all crumbles?
Besides, I broke his heart once. Why would he even want to take that risk with me again? My mother must see the war raging inside me because she squeezes my hand tighter, grounding me.
"You are my daughter," she says fiercely. "You are braver than you think and stronger than you can even imagine. You may be bruised, but you are not broken, mija. You just need to remember who you are."
Her words hit me like an earthquake, shaking something loose inside me, something I’ve buried for too long. I want to believe her. I need to believe her.
Because if I don’t…Then I’m not sure I’ll ever find my way back to myself again.
I sit beside my mother’s bed for hours, talking about everything and nothing all at once. We weave through memories, through laughter, through stories that I’ve heard a million times but never tire of.
She talks about my papi like he’s still in the other room, like he might walk in any second, still young, still full of life. She tells me about the way he used to dance with her in the kitchen, spinning her around like they were the only two people in the world.
How he used to press his hand to her stomach when she was pregnant with me, whispering to me in Spanish, telling me stories before I was even born.
She tells me about myself, too—about the little girl who used to pick mangoes from the neighbor’s tree even though she wasn’t supposed to. The one who could never keep still during mass, who sang too loudly during Christmas novenas, who had dreams bigger than her body could hold.
She tells me all the things I used to be, all the things she sees in me still, even when I can’t see them myself—I cling to every word, because I don’t know how many more of these conversations we’ll have.
Eventually, exhaustion tugs at her, her words slowing, her voice softening. She blinks at me sleepily, reaching for my hand one last time before sleep claims her, her fingers curling weakly around mine.
“I love you, mi amor,” she murmurs, her voice thin but sure. “Never forget who you are.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, pressing a kiss to her hand. “I love you too, Mami.”
Her breathing evens out, slow and steady, and I stay exactly where I am, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, counting each breath like a prayer.
The hospital room is quiet, the dim light casting soft shadows across the walls. I lean back in the chair, tipping my head against the headrest, staring up at the ceiling tiles.
I close my eyes, and the first thing I see is him—Seba’s smile. The way his eyes softened when he looked at me in the water. The way his voice wrapped around me when he whispered, I’d do anything for you.
I exhale shakily and reach into my purse, pulling out my phone. I don’t even think about it—I just open our text thread, scrolling through old messages. I re-read the stupid jokes, the early morning check-ins, the effortless way we fell back into something familiar.
My thumb hovers over his contact- for a long moment, I just stare. I could call him. I could tell him the truth, tell him that I miss him—that I think about him more than I should. That I don’t just want to be his friend, or I don’t know how to be just his friend.
I could tell him everything. Instead, I press the power button, locking the screen, and set the phone down on the small table beside my mother’s bed.
Not yet. I’m not ready. But maybe, just maybe, I want to be.