The Narrative: The Story of My Life

I am the author now. Not the echo. Not the apology. Not the footnote. The author.

I’ve been absorbing stress like a sponge left out in the rain—saturated, heavy, aching. Music is my medicine. It’s the only thing that doesn’t ask me to explain the pain in my arm, the pain in my spine, the pain in my spirit. After the minor surgery, after the ibedril injection meant to cool my contractions but instead left me with a lifetime of suffering, I’ve learned how to breathe through fire. Not because I wanted to—but because I had to.

Now my daughter burns with a 103° fever, and I feel helpless. Not because I don’t know what to do, but because I’ve already done everything. I’ve held her, prayed over her, whispered strength into her sleep. I’ve proofed the world wrong. I’ve carried my accomplishments like offerings, not to scream them in anyone’s face, but to say: I am still here. I am still rising.

And when I did, they congratulated me. My dad said, “Great news! God keeps blessing you.” My mom said, “Me siento muy feliz, te lo mereces.” And I believed them. I let those words settle into my bones like balm.

But then came the text from Sister L.—a message dressed in pride and passive ache. She said she didn’t know the drama, didn’t want to change my mind, but still named all the ways I hadn’t shown up. She said the phone works both ways. She said my daughter would be the one missing out. She said they were always there.

So I showed them my new home.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg.

I sent a photo.

Because if the phone works both ways, then yes—

Here is my home.

See it through a phone.

It’ll last longer than in person.Here is my home.
See it through a phone.
It’ll last longer than in person.
Don’t bother. Save time and gas.
If you step on my front porch, don’t go knocking on my door.
This threshold is sacred. This peace is earned.
This is not a stage for your guilt to perform on.

I remember what she said before. I remember what I had to make her take back. I remember the ache of being misunderstood, of being told my story was just a “narrative.” These are the words that recall

“Hi S…, i wanted to let u know we are always proud of you and ur accomplishments. I do not know what is going on, what drama is or any issues are going on. All i know is life is too short, and our family is everything. Im sorry u disagree or see things differently, that’s ur story and narrative and i will not ever try to change ur mind. The phone works both ways if u or M. or your daughter S. need me u have my number n u have my address. We are missing important dates, u missed my daughter A’s birthday, graduation, we didn’t see u for ur bday….i hope u enjoyed flowers n giftcard me n our sisters gave u. We miss our niece and maybe what u want is us to visit…ask me too, i have yet heard u invite me over or ask me too. Our niece in end will be missing out, you have a niece too and she us fine and well thank god. Hope u continue to achieve all of ur goals, we will always be here.”

So I named myself: The Narrative.

Not as fiction.

As fact.

As fire.

As the story of my life.

I am not a missed birthday.

I am not a silence in a group text.

I am not the one who forgot.

I am the one who remembered everything.

I am the one who chose sovereignty over performance.

I am the one who listens to music to survive.

I am the one who holds my child through fever and flame.

I am the one who keeps showing up—for myself, for her, for the truth.

God hasn’t punished me.

God is with me.

And I am with myself.

The truth is this “Hi L..,

I wanted to explain why I said no to attending the graduation. It wasn’t just about the event—it was about everything that came before it. You insisted on the visit, and I appreciated that effort. But once I gave you a clear no, you stopped insisting. That shift said a lot.

I’ve made real efforts to stay connected—bringing my daughter S. to visit, sharing our address, opening space for family. But Mom hasn’t called or checked on us. When you tried to coordinate the visit, she found reasons to block it. That hurt.

If the visit is too much to ask for all of you, then that says it all. It tells me where we stand—no importance. And when my daughter S. and I have visited, there hasn’t been space for her to just be a child. No toys, no freedom to play. But the dog is always there, always cared for. That tells me who gets more attention.

Last time, Mom insulted my wife, M. when she pulled over by the side of the street. I knew why—because she wasn’t okay with you inviting me first to A’s graduation. That moment said everything.

So when you called, I gave the answer I knew everyone expected. But it wasn’t just a no—it was a boundary. I need space where my daughter S. and I are respected, not just included when it’s convenient.

I know you’ve tried, and I appreciate that. I just needed you to understand where I’m coming from.

PS. Thank you for the birthday gifts that were delivered by Sister A. I appreciated them.”

If they ever need me, they sure as hell they won’t have to count on me, The Narrative.