But then the phone calls came again. First, it was my mom. Then Valentina. They all came when they needed something, and I was ready to say no.
I’d built my success without them, and I wasn’t going to let them back in just because I had something they wanted.
It was a few years later, after I’d secured my first major contract, when I ran into my parents again. They were at a conference I was attending, though they didn’t know I was there.
I spotted them from across the room, looking out of place, standing in a circle of people who didn’t seem to care about them the way they expected. I recognized the tension in their posture, the fake smiles. My dad’s thinning hair, the way he always fidgeted with his sleeves when he was uncomfortable. My mom was talking animatedly to someone, but her eyes kept darting around, clearly searching for someone to validate her presence.
I didn’t approach them. Not this time.
They didn’t see me at first. And for a second, I thought about going up to them—asking them how it felt to see me, seeing the life I had made without them. But I didn’t.
I stood there for a while, watching them, wondering if they’d ever realize what they had lost. The truth was, I wasn’t angry anymore. I had just moved on.
And maybe that was the hardest part for them to understand.
A few weeks later, I got the call from my father. He told me about his cancer diagnosis, and for the first time in years, I felt something like pity for him.
When he asked for help, I wasn’t sure at first. But after thinking it over, I knew I couldn’t just turn my back on him. Despite everything, he was still my father.
And for the first time in a long time, he did. He left her.
He was finally free, and for the first time, I felt like he could really be a part of my life again.
My company grew quickly over the next few years, expanding into other cities. I hired some of the best engineers from my old firm, worked on major projects across Texas. Life kept moving forward, faster than I could keep up with.
And then, one day, I got a letter from my grandmother, Aba Rosa. It was the last letter she’d ever written me. In it, she reminded me of everything she’d taught me—what it meant to work for something, to build something real, and to never let anyone, especially my mother, make me doubt my worth.
I kept that letter in my desk, reading it every now and then when I needed a reminder.
Family, she’d always told me, were the ones who showed up. The ones who stuck around when everything fell apart. And she was right.
I didn’t need them to validate my success. I’d built it on my own. And I was finally at peace with that.
I had made it on my own, without their approval, without their love. And that meant more to me than anything.
It was a rainy afternoon in Houston when the call came. I was sitting at my desk, reviewing blueprints for a new development project, when my phone buzzed. I glanced down at the screen. It was my father.
I didn’t answer right away. Our conversations had become increasingly strained, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready for whatever he had to say. But when the phone rang again, something in me knew I couldn’t ignore it.
“Dad?” I answered cautiously.
“Miho…” His voice was weak, distant. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a fool.”
I sighed, rubbing my temples. “What now, Dad?”
He was silent for a moment before speaking again, his words slow, as if he were choosing them carefully.
“I don’t deserve your forgiveness. Not for the way I treated you. Not for the way I let her control everything. But I need you to know I’m sorry. I wish I could have been the father you needed.”
I leaned back in my chair, staring out the window at the pouring rain. It had been years since I’d heard him speak like this. And it hit me—harder than I expected—that I wasn’t angry anymore. Maybe I was just tired.Continue reading…
