The Day the Light Dimmed
It was a rainy morning when I woke to find Marisol sitting by the window again—her favorite place. But this time, she wasn’t breathing.
The doctor said it was peaceful, that her heart had simply slowed in her sleep. But nothing about that day felt peaceful to me. The house felt emptier than I could bear. Every corner echoed with her laughter; every cup of coffee carried her scent.
At her funeral, Lucia read one of her mother’s letters:
“My dear Lucia, if you are reading this, know that love is not the absence of pain. It is what makes pain bearable. I once hid my scars because I feared they made me unworthy. But your father taught me that scars are the places where love enters. Carry that truth wherever you go.”
There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.
