Page 90 of Back to You
She shot me a look over her shoulder, unimpressed. "You haven’t been taking care of yourself."
"I’m fine."
Anna snorted, stirring the pot. "You look like you haven’t seen the sun in weeks, Mari."
I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue, because she wasn’t wrong.
She set two plates down on the table—arroz con gandules, grilled chicken, thick slices of avocado on the side. It smelled exactly like home—exactly like my mother’s cooking.
In an instant, the ache I had been trying so hard to ignore wedged itself between my ribs, pressing down hard. I gripped my fork, my throat suddenly too tight.
Anna sat across from me, quiet for once, just watching. She didn’t say anything when I hesitated. She just waited, and for some reason, that felt worse, so I took a bite, and then another.
I wasn’t sure if I was actually hungry or if I just wanted to prove to her that I wasn’t falling apart, that I could sit here and eat a plate of food like a normal person. For a moment, it worked…for a moment, we just…ate.
But suddenly, Anna pushed back from the table. I thought maybe she was going to grab more water or clear the plates. Instead, she reached into her bag, and pulled out something small.
At first, I didn’t recognize what it was, but then she set it down on the table between us, and everything inside me stilled. An envelope.
The paper was soft with wear, the edges slightly bent, like it had been held too many times, passed from one set of handsto another. My name was written on the front, in handwriting I would recognize anywhere. The air shifted. My throat tightened. I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.
Anna exhaled softly, her voice quieter now. "Your mom wrote you a letter."
Everything stilled; my breath caught in my throat. "What?"
Anna’s eyes stayed steady on mine. "Sebastian gave it to me. She wrote it before she passed, and told him to give it to you when you needed it."
Something in my stomach twisted—sharp, unrelenting. I swallowed hard. "Why didn’t he tell me?"
Anna didn’t hesitate. "Would you have opened it?"
I felt the answer stick in my throat, thick and heavy. No, I wouldn’t have. I wasn’t sure I could even open it now.
My hands trembled as I reached for it, my fingers tracing over the familiar loops and curves of my mother’s handwriting—“For my Mariana.”
The air in the room thinned. Tears blurred my vision before I even worked up the courage to slide my thumb under the seal. "I'm going to go upstairs and let you read this," Anna says, setting the letter down in front of me.
I don’t move, don’t say a word. A moment later, I hear her footsteps retreating, leaving me alone with the envelope, the one I’ve been too afraid to open.
My fingers hover over it, hesitation curling tight in my chest. But then I slide my thumb under the seal, peeling it open with slow, deliberate care.
The paper inside is smooth beneath my fingertips, the ink slightly smudged in places, like it’s been touched too many times. My gaze catches on the familiar loops and curves of her writing, a sharp ache blooms in my chest.
I blink hard, once, twice, then take a slow breath and start to read.
My Mari,
If you’re reading this, it means I am gone. And for that, my love, I am so sorry. If love alone could have kept me here, I would have stayed forever. I would have fought the whole damn world just to have more time with you—to see you smile, to hear your laugh, to hold your hand just a little longer. But time doesn’t bargain, mi vida. Time doesn’t care how tightly we hold on, how much we beg, how desperately we wish for just one more day.
I know you, Mariana. I know you better than anyone. I was the first to hold you, the first to love you, the first to whisper your name against my heart. I have seen every piece of you—the bright, the stubborn, the fierce, the tender. You are made of fire and softness, of wild storms and warm sunshine. You are the best thing I ever did.
I also know how hard you fight to be strong. My girl, always carrying the weight alone, always trying to prove that you don’t need anyone to hold you up. You have always been so determined, so fiercely independent, and so afraid to need. You think if you don’t let yourself lean too much, if you don’t love too deeply, if you don’t hold on too tightly, it won’t hurt as much when it’s gone. But love doesn’t work like that, mi corazón. Love is meantto be held with both hands. It is meant to be felt fully—without hesitation, without fear. Love is the only thing worth being afraid of, and the only thing worth choosing anyway.
I know you’re scared. I know how loss has shaped you, how it has made you wary, made you build walls you think will keep you safe. But Mari, life without love isn’t safe—it’s empty. It’s the kind of quiet that lingers in the spaces where love should be. It’s the ache that doesn’t go away, the loneliness that settles in when you’ve spent too long pushing people away, and I never wanted that for you.
Loving you and your papi was the easiest, most natural thing in the world—like breathing, like the sun rising each morning without question. It was never a choice I had to make; it was simply who I was, wrapped up in the love I had for my family. That kind of love, mi vida, the kind that settles into your bones and fills the spaces between heartbeats, is meant to be cherished, not feared.
I know love can feel uncertain. I know it can feel fragile, it can feel like something that can be taken away in an instant. But that’s not a reason to hold back. That’s not a reason to shut it out. Love isn’t about guarantees—it’s about choosing it anyway,about letting it shape you, letting it remind you that even in the hardest moments, you are not alone.
