Marisol hadn’t wanted to go at first.
The monthly family lunch at her aunt’s house was always loud, full of stories and cousins and casseroles. But since her divorce six months ago, even simple gatherings felt like tasks she couldn’t finish. Her smile never quite reached her eyes anymore.
But her younger brother Mateo had shown up at her door that morning, holding a paper coffee cup and a quiet insistence. “Just come for an hour,” he said. “It’s Second Saturday.”
So she did.
Aunt Rosa’s house smelled like roasted peppers and cinnamon rice. Her little cousin Lucia rushed over and hugged her legs. “You came! I saved a seat next to me!”
Marisol nodded, letting herself be pulled in.
After lunch, while the others played cards or cleaned up, Mateo found her on the porch swing, staring out at nothing.
“It’s okay to be tired,” he said gently.
She didn’t respond at first.
Then she said, “Some days, I feel like I’m not getting better. Just functioning. One task at a time.”
“That is getting better,” he said. “Sometimes surviving is the progress.”
He reached into his backpack and handed her a small prescription bottle. “Your doctor called this morning. You forgot to pick up your refill.”
Marisol sighed, then laughed softly. “You’re really playing the little brother card today.”
“Only because I care. And because I know you. You show up for people, even when you’re breaking. It’s time to show up for yourself.”
Later, back at her apartment, Marisol brewed herself a cup of tea and took the first pill from the new bottle.
It wasn’t a cure — she knew that. But it was a tool. And so was community. And quiet porch talks. And giving herself grace.
She marked her calendar for the next family lunch: Second Saturday, 2 p.m. And this time, she didn’t dread it.
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