Page 7 of Back to You
“I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.”
I wipe my face with the back of my sleeve. “What’s the plan? What are they doing for you? How do we fix this?” My voice is desperate now. Pleading.
She squeezes my hand. “There’s no fixing this. I’ve been doing chemotherapy since I was diagnosed. They removed as much of the tumor as they could, but it’s spread, Mija.”
My heart shatters.
Once again, in this very hospital, my world is breaking into pieces. We’re holding onto each other, sobbing. She’s not going to make it out of this. I know that now. But she won’t go through it alone. I’m staying. For every moment, every breath, every second—I’ll be here.
I’m moving home. For good.
After spending the day with my mom, I finally headed to my childhood home. The moment I step inside, I’m hit with the scent of home. Not just the scent itself, but the years of love and warmth baked into the walls. The faint traces of garlic, sofrito, and fried plantains still linger in the air, as if my mom had just stepped out of the kitchen, a wooden spoon in hand, ready to tell me to taste something.
There’s the familiar scent of black coffee, robust and earthy, a staple in our mornings together. It’s as if every meal she’s ever made is still woven into the walls, clinging to the air like a warm embrace.
I shut the door softly behind me and take slow steps into the living room. The house feels frozen in time—exactly as I remember it, yet impossibly different, like I don’t fully belong here anymore.
I stop at the photo wall, the collection of frames my mom has carefully arranged over the years. My fingers brush lightly over a picture of her and Papi on their wedding day—him in a sharp black suit, her in a lace gown, eyes full of love. Next to it is a picture of me as a baby—chubby cheeks, wild curls, toothless grin. Another frame holds a photo of my mom’s family in Puerto Rico, all gathered outside my grandmother’s house, faces sun-kissed, frozen mid-laughter.
A lump rises in my throat, my vision blurring as tears prick my eyes. My dad’s gone. Now I’m going to lose my mom too. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fucking fair. I thought I had more time.
I sink onto the big red couch, the same one I curled into as a child when I was sick, when I was sad, when I just wanted to benear my parents. The worn fabric is soft beneath my fingertips, filled with years of memories.
The memories flood in, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket. The dance parties we had right here in the living room, music blasting from my dad’s old stereo, my mom twirling me around as we laughed until our stomachs hurt.
The smell of onions sizzling in a pan, my mom teaching me how to chop vegetables without slicing my fingers, showing me how to roll out dough for empanadas, and scolding me when I tried to eat the filling before it was ready.
The time I broke her lamp, hurling a ball across the room and watching in horror as it shattered into a million tiny pieces. I swore I could fix it before she got home. I swore she wouldn’t notice. She noticed.
The time I broke my arm, daring myself to jump from the ottoman to the couch, convinced I could fly. The hard smack of the floor, the sharp, white-hot pain shooting through my arm. My mom, frantic, rushed me to the hospital, holding my hand the entire time, whispering in my ear, “Mija, I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
I close my eyes and let out a slow, shaky breath. I hit the jackpot with my parents. They loved me fiercely, without hesitation, without limits. My dad worked himself to the bone to make sure we never went without. My mom held us together, the glue that kept our little family whole. When my dad died, I wasn’t sure how I was going to get through it. Now, I don’t know how I’m going to do this all over again.
A chime pulls me from my thoughts. I glance at my phone—A text from Anna.
We met when we were four. I was shy; she was fearless. When Tommy, the class bully, shoved me down and stole my toy, I just sat there and cried. But Anna saw.
“Hey! That’s not yours, give it back!” She stormed right up to him and shoved him to the ground. “And say sorry while you’re at it!”
After he mumbled an apology, she turned to me and declared, “We’re best friends for life now.” And that was that.
Even after I moved to Seattle, we stayed close—constant texts and endless phone calls. Until Andrew. He pushed me away from her, from everyone. He never wanted her to visit.
I opened the text. I already know what it is going to say.
Anna
My mom told me she saw you today. How are you feeling? She told me what happened. I’m so sorry, babe. I’m here for you, always.
Mariana
Thanks, An. I’m still in shock. I can’t believe she’s sick, and I can’t believe it took her this long to tell me. I’m trying not to be mad at her, but I wish she would’ve told me sooner!
Anna
Totally understand. I’d be pissed if my mom or dad didn’t tell me they were sick. But I guess she was trying to shield you from the pain, especially considering what you’ve been dealing with.
Mariana
