Page 99 of Run Home

As I wipe tears from my eyes, moisture glints in my dad’s. After a few seconds of silence, he says, “I’m sorry, Adrián. I didn’t mean to hurt you by not talking about her. It’s just that she was everything to me. And then she was gone. So suddenly. I didn’t know how to live without her.”

He pauses, then says, “But I had to live. I had to be alive for you. You lost your mamá—you couldn’t lose me too. I couldn’t talk or even think about her without falling into a dark place. You needed me, and I couldn’t be there for you if I was in the dark place. So I didn’t talk about her. I pushed away the thoughts of her because I was trying to survive the pain. I’m sorry I didn’t do a good job.”

“No, Papá, don’t say that. You did the best you could. I understand that,” I say, trying to reassure him. Especially considering the contrast between the way Samantha’s biological mother checked out after her father’s death, I definitely don’t want to make my dad feel like he didn’t do the right thing when he kept living for me.

I should have called up one of the therapists to listen on speaker to make sure I didn’t say the wrong thing here.

“You’ve done everything for me. You did show up for me. I understand how you had to survive those years after she died. And if you still can’t talk about her now, I’ll understand that too. But I’m trying to stop running away from hard emotions all the time, starting with letting myself miss Mamá. So if you ever do want to talk about her, I want to hear. That’s all.”

Dad nods slowly before staring out into the darkness. Not knowing what else to say, I silently stare as well, questioning if I should have kept my mouth shut. Maybe this was my pain to process on my own. I shouldn’t have forced him to talk about it or made him feel like he did something wrong. Ay, menso, I’ve messed up again, I think as I rub a hand over my face.

“She had such a free heart, your mamá,” Dad says quietly. There’s a smile in his voice when he adds, “She was so creative, so full of life. Nothing could cage her spirit. Her hands worked at the hospital laundry room, but her heart was everywhere. In paintings, in poetry, in music, in the sky and the ocean, the trees and the birds. Every second was a beautiful song with her. It was so quiet without her. But she put that joyful spirit in you too.”

Tears blur my vision as I watch his face. His expression dips from joyful remembrance to agony and back again. He recounts the story of the first time he saw her in school, of the way she stared out the window of the classroom, engrossed in the clouds drifting through the sky, yet still managed to recite the correct answer when called on by the teacher.

“I knew I loved her at that very moment. The girl with one foot in her dreams and one foot in reality. She was special,” Dad says before his voice trails off.

Sniffing hard, I open my mouth to say something, but Dad says, “Adrián, mijo, I know what you’ve been thinking, but I don’t want to move here.”

There’s no oxygen in my lungs to respond immediately.

He looks at me, at my stalled-out expression, and explains, “I love you. I love being with you. But Venezuela is my home. I don’t want to leave.”

My thoughts kick-start back into action, and I start to argue. “But, Papá, look at all you could have here. Everything could be so easy. You’ve worked hard your whole life, but you don’t have to keep working so hard. Or you could work here, too, if that’s what you wanted. You gave me everything when I was a kid, and I can give it all back to you now.”

Dad shakes his head, and I know he’s already made up his mind. “I love your life here. For you. I never want you to leave here. And I want to come visit you more. Who knows—maybe when I’m an old man, I’ll need to be closer to you. Maybe things will get too hard. But for now, my home is Valencia. My friends, my community, my memories with your mamá.” His voice catches when he mentions my mom, but he continues, “It’s where I belong. Just like you belong here. We’ll always belong to each other, but I can’t move here. I hope you understand.”

Sighing, I lean back in the patio chair. A few months ago, I wouldn’t have understood. I wouldn’t have known why he would choose a harder life when he could be here, enjoying every experience with me. I would have pushed him to live life to the fullest by moving to the US with me.

But the past few months have happened. They’ve changed me, stretched me. My relationship with Samantha has helped me see that life to the fullest doesn’t mean easy, carefree days. The fullest life is one that includes pain, includes sitting in the hard things with the people you love.

So I’m not going to push my dad. I’m going to let him choose his fullest life—even if it’s thousands of miles away from me.

The weight of the conversation starts to pull too hard, and I wipe my eyes one final time. “Well,” I begin, “I guess I will need a place to stay when I bring Samantha to see Venezuela. I wouldn’t want to have to pay for a hotel.”

Dad turns to me with a wide smile, and we break out laughing at the same time. We also stand at the same time, embracing one another. “I love you, Papá.”

“I love you, mijo.”

Chapter thirty-seven

Samantha

Juan’s hug is fierce as we say goodbye outside the airport. “I will love to see you again soon,” he tells me when he releases the embrace. “You are good for my son. My wife would love you.”

My eyes soon match the sheen in his, and I hug him once more. Turning to Adrián, I say, “I’ll wait in the car.” I get into the front seat of his SUV to give them a moment, catching their emotional embrace in the side mirror. Adrián waits on the sidewalk as his dad goes through the airport’s glass doors, and he holds up his hand in a final wave a few seconds later.

His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses when he gets into the car, but the tightness around his mouth reveals the emotions he’s fighting to keep in. I reach over and place my hand on his knee, lightly squeezing. After he pulls the car away from the curb, he covers my hand with his.

We ride in silence for a few minutes until he says, “We talked about my mom last night. And he’s not going to move here. He wants to stay in Venezuela.”

“Oh, Adrián,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

He threads his fingers through mine and says, “I’m sorry for me. But I’m not sorry for him. I understand why he wants to stay. I’ll fly him up to visit more often.”

“Will you take me to Venezuela sometime?” I ask, shifting the mood for him. “You know, after you win the World Series and get a break for a couple of months?”

Adrián grins and brings my hand to his lips to kiss my fingers at a red light. “I’ll absolutely take you to Venezuela. We’d better get to work on your Spanish.”