Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around by Pagán, Camille (dar e dil novel online reading .txt) 📕

I’d worried about myself dying, but I’d never considered that they might spend part of their childhood without their father. And their father was the kind that my own father would be proud of. Had been proud of; he’d treated Shiloh like his own son and had boasted about him to anyone who’d listen. He’d loved to tell people how Shiloh switched between Spanish and English without missing a beat and flew planes and was the kind of husband he’d “always hoped my daughter would have.” He’d loved Tom, but he’d never once said that about him.

I swallowed hard, even as the tears kept flowing, then went to stand behind my parents’ headstones, where Paul had just been. I’d prepared something to say, but now it felt all wrong. I decided I would just share what was in my heart.

“I don’t know if everyone has a soul mate,” I began, looking at Shiloh. “Like the afterlife, I think it’s one of those concepts we all have to work out for ourselves—and even then, we’re probably just guessing. But if I know one thing, it’s that my father loved my mother more than life itself, and her death didn’t change that even the slightest bit. I keep thinking about this photo he sent me right after I was first diagnosed with cancer. The two of them were on the beach in Vieques. They were newlyweds, so in love that you could feel it beaming right out of the photo. My mother was pregnant with me and Paul then, actually, and she and my father had no idea about the difficulties that lay ahead.”

Paul was handing me another tissue, which I accepted, and I took a moment to compose myself. Already, the sun was breaking through the dark clouds, and I could tell that the sky would soon be as blue as if there had never been rain at all. In a few short hours, the stars would appear. But I didn’t need to watch them glitter to know that my mother and father were out there somewhere, somehow, smiling down at the legacy they’d left behind.

“Even if they’d had a crystal ball and had seen every single thing coming, I’m willing to bet that they still would have been glowing like the world was their oyster. Because that’s what it feels like when you love and know you’re truly loved by another person.” Shiloh was holding my gaze now, and I smiled at him softly. I might lose him before I was ready, just like my parents. It was a risk I would have to take. “See, that’s the thing about love. You know it can’t last forever, and that no matter what happens, you’re going to have to say goodbye before you’re ready. But that doesn’t mean you don’t do it. It means you just try to love even more and even better, while you still have the chance.”

I took a deep breath and looked around at the wonderfully flawed people I had the good fortune of calling my family. Paul and Charlie, who were holding hands and standing between their sons. Isa and Charlotte, who were huddled together and smiling softly at me. Shiloh, whose warm eyes were still resting on me.

Then I looked at the granite headstones that were but mere placeholders for my parents. I would always wish they were with me; I would always want more chances to love, to laugh, to take one more spin around the sun. That was what it felt like to be fully alive. But this day, this moment, was a gift.

And it was more than enough.

EPILOGUE

Three weeks after we got back from Vieques, the girls and I were returning from a walk in Prospect Park when I saw a bright yellow butterfly resting on the wrought-iron fence outside of our apartment. Sometimes you know before you know; I wasn’t surprised to find Shiloh sitting at the table, waiting for me. When he looked up at me, his eyes were brimming with tears. “Milagros is gone,” he said. “I’m sorry, Libby.”

Oh, how I was, too. But now, finally, I knew that trying to pretend otherwise would only make it hurt worse.

Several days later, a FedEx envelope arrived for me; Hector’s name was on the return address. That night, after the girls went to bed, I turned on the patio lights and went outside to open the envelope.

Inside, there was a handwritten letter paper-clipped to a stack of legal documents. I waited a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, then began to read.

Dear Libby,

If you’re reading this, I’m winking at you from the sky. Hola, mija!

I’ve had hundreds of people stay at my guesthouse over the years. You could have been any one of them—someone who had a friendly chat or two with me, then let me fade into the memory of their time in Vieques.

But I knew from that first day when we had drinks that you weren’t just another traveler. Even though you were hurting, you had a spark that reminded me of myself. You and I—we know that two people can have the exact same experience and walk away with two different stories. This life is only ever what we make of it.

I know you’ve had a rough go of it lately, and that you feel guilty about that. Don’t. Having a roof over your head and a family you love and a body that works the way you need it to doesn’t make your pain any less valid than anyone else’s. And life is pain, mija. Not always, but often enough—and gracias a Dios for that, because without it, how would we ever truly appreciate all the good that comes alongside it?

Entonces! This is a long way of saying that you are very important to me, Libby. I treasure our friendship and all the smiles you’ve put on my wrinkled face over the years. I love that you love Vieques