There’s this red robin that shows up sometimes.
In the front yard.
Or the backyard.
And I don’t know how to explain it, but every time I see it, I think it’s you.

The way it watches me.
The way it lingers.
The way it turns and runs, not flies, runs, like it’s trying to make an exit just dramatic enough to be funny.
It makes me laugh.
It’s exactly the kind of silly thing you’d do.

Maybe that’s what happens when someone we love is gone.
They come back in the moments that don’t have words.
In the silence.
In the small things.

This year without you has been heavier than I knew a year could be.
There’s so much I want to tell you.
So many times I’ve reached for my phone, expecting a message from you,
and then remembering.

I miss your voice.
I miss your calm.
I miss the way you saw me without needing me to explain.

And I’ve carried a lot of guilt.
It sits in the corners of my heart, quiet but constant.

Was I a good daughter?
Did I show up enough?
Did I say it enough?
Did you know how much I loved you?

I used to joke you’d live forever.
And some part of me believed it.
I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

Watching you slow down after your stroke, and the years after,
was hard.
For you.
For Mom.

I know you still had things you wanted to do.
Things you wanted to say.
And even though you never complained, I could feel how much it cost you.
And every day, when you got up and did your exercises, learned to write again, learned to talk again,
you showed us how strong and resilient you were.

And we were so proud.

I still see you everywhere.

In the way I take my time.
In how I try to show love through action, not just words.
In how I try to live with intention.
And in how I try to hold peace, even when everything around me feels like chaos.
(It doesn’t always work. But I try.)

I’m proud of the life you lived.
The life you built.

You left Ecuador, your roots, your language, everything familiar, and made a life here.
You were so brave.
You worked hard.
You made sacrifices.
You made sure we had what we needed, even when it cost you time and rest.

But you weren’t just work and responsibility.
You were wonder.

You were el oso bueno y el oso malo when I was a little girl.
You had your seasonal rules — raspas (snow cones) if it hit 100°F, Snickers if it dropped below 40°F.
You’d take us for gas station hot chocolate and drive to look at Christmas lights every year.
You taught me to jump waves at the beach.
You loved being in the forest, in the quiet.
And you were always stopping to take pictures of flowers. So many flowers.
Like, seriously, so many.

That’s how I picture you now.
Outside. In a field of flowers.
Smiling. Not in a rush.
Taking pictures to your heart’s content.

I remember one of our last Saturdays together, before your stroke.
We went out for menudo and talked for hours, like we did so many Saturday mornings.
It was one of the first times I said out loud how bad things had gotten at home.
I was scared you’d be disappointed.
But instead, you said:
“No matter what time it is. Even if it’s the middle of the night. You call me, and I’ll come get you. I’ll help you pack.”

You meant it.
And I never forgot.

You also grew with us.
Even when we made decisions you didn’t understand, you tried to.
You gave us space.
You asked questions.
You didn’t agree with everything, but you loved us through it.

And when you used to tell me I was like Mom — usually after a fight —
I’d yell, “I’M NEVER GOING TO BE LIKE THAT WOMAN!”

But I understand now.
I think you knew I would, eventually.

We’re taking care of her.
She’s learning how to live again.
To wake up and choose something good.
To laugh.
To enjoy her own company.
To look at the world with a little more wonder, even after everything.
She’s not erasing the grief.
She’s carrying it.
But she’s also choosing joy, for herself.

And I know you’d be proud of her.

Even though I wasn’t ready to let you go,
I know you were tired.
I know you were ready to rest.
And somehow, that makes it a little easier.
Knowing you’re at peace.
Knowing we made our peace.
We got to say goodbye.
Even if it still hurt more than I expected when you were gone.

I’m grateful you were my dad.
I’m grateful I got the years I had with you.
I’m grateful for the memories I can still feel, the ones that come back when I need them most.
And I hope you know how deeply, fiercely, and forever you are loved.

Every time I see the red robin, I’ll say hi.
And for a moment, I’ll feel like you’re still here.
Not gone, just nearby.
And that brings me peace.

Te amo, Papá.
Anita ❤️