Tuesday, December 23, 2025
A few days ago, I lost my father.
Since then, my mind has been crowded with millions of thoughts and emotions—some tender, some heavy, and everything in between. Our relationship was tumultuous, to say the least. I spent much of my life trying not to be like him, though I’m not entirely sure what that meant. The truth is, I don’t know if I ever truly knew him.
I asked myself simple questions that shouldn’t be so hard to answer:
What was his favorite color? His favorite food? The music he loved? Did he have dreams?
I couldn’t answer any of them—not even with an educated guess.
I cried on and off, even while trying to eat, unsure of the reason, as if grief had found its way into every small moment. While signing paperwork and speaking with strangers who showed me unexpected compassion, I asked myself: What do I know? And so, I will tell you what I know.
I know he was complex, shaped by a life that did not begin easily. I know he learned to cook in the States around 1982—before that, his mom, my abuelita Gabriela, made his meals (lol)—though I never tasted his cooking. I know he smiled every time he saw me, even when I was scolding him for the many reasons only a son can find.
I know that years ago, sitting side by side on a hospital bed, we called a truce. I know that no matter what, he messaged me every morning around 7 a.m. I know that he loved me, even when I questioned that love.
He wasn’t perfect—but he was my father.
Until I see you again.
