And that is not just a nationality.
It is an open wound.
It is memory.
It is grief.
It is exile.

Sometimes, family isn’t close by.
Sometimes, the people who love you most are separated by borders, time zones, and years apart.

For Sean—who wanted nothing more than to be there, and somehow still is.
Always, Mi Amor.

One of the most beautiful things Sean ever taught me was how to love myself.

There are people who stay close, even when they’re no longer physically here. They leave traces everywhere—little echoes in our routines, in our memories, in the things they once loved. Sean is one of those people.

There’s a saying: “Behind every great man, there’s a great woman.”
But today, I see it the other way around.

Today Gab went to a hockey game with his school. He texted me and sent me photos without me even asking — in fact, I didn’t even remember the game was today — and I got so excited. Just seeing his smile, the way he captured the moment… it made my entire day.

And that’s when it hit me.
That right there — that’s why I moved here.

Every day, I get a message — sometimes from someone who knew Sean, other times from someone who knows me.

The silent pause behind every “How are you?.” When you ask a grieving person “How are you?” — are you really prepared for the answer?

Most days, when someone asks me that question, I take a small breath and quickly assess how much truth the other person can handle. In a fraction of a second, I ask myself: What level of grief or honesty can this person carry today?

When people talk about grief, they often say things like “life goes on” or “you’ll find your new normal.”

But the truth is, life never really goes back. There is no before and after that you can separate neatly. There’s only with.

“Beautiful, big-titty, butt-naked women just don't fall out the sky, you know?”

Sean used to say I took too many photos.
And Gab would laugh and tell me, “Mom, you don’t have to take pictures of everything.”

But deep down, I knew I was going to need them — every single one.

Sometimes, I just need to stop.

Disconnect.

Walk it out.

Breathe.

Recharge.

And then… somehow, do it all again.

Carry the weight again.

“Mom, not everything has to be perfect.” Gab tells me this often. My preteen, with his quiet wisdom, reminding me of something I still struggle to believe. I smile when he says it—because he’s right. And because it feels like life has flipped: the child teaching the mother.

When someone dies, everyone reaches out. Everyone is sorry. Everyone cries with you. You get hundreds of messages and you learn who’s really there for you.

You discover who your true friends are. You see who you can count on. Grief teaches you what matters and what doesn’t, who matters and who doesn’t. Who you want in your life, and who you don’t.

“Wait… you won’t say hi, but you’re comfortable showing me everything?” In my family, we call this moment “showing your goodies.” (If you know, you know.)

A dear friend made a homemade tomato sauce for us, a kind gesture to ease the weight of everyday meal-making, offered out of pure love.

Everything that comes out of that friend’s kitchen is so delicious, it could easily rival a chef’s. So a few days later, I was excited to use it. I set the water to boil, dropped in the pasta, and set the timer. Everything was on track, until I tried to open the jar.

My Gab, my beautiful sweet big boy, is now in high school. Or as he insists on correcting me, “middle school, Mom.” That’s what they call it here, but for this mamá gallina, it’s all the same thing, and honestly, it feels way too soon.

They all go to the same building, they ride the same bus. And let me pause here: it’s not even a yellow school bus, it’s the city bus. That revelation alone gave me another heart-attack moment.

Yes, I know he’s growing too fast. Back in Panama, he was in grade 5. Then we moved here, he jumped to grade 6, and just a few months later—boom—he’s in grade 7, in the “other school,” the “other building,” the high school one. See my point?

But that’s not really why I’m writing this.

I’m not alone in this pain, in this grief. And yet, that’s the cruelest part. The hardest thing I have ever done, the hardest mission I’ve had in this life, was to come home and tell my beautiful, perfect, happy boys that their dad had passed away.

Today I had some time to myself. I opened Netflix, hoping to find a light, silly romantic comedy to watch. I stumbled upon My Oxford Year, starring Sofia Carson, it had been showing up on my feed a lot lately. So I gave it a try. I had no idea what I was walking into.