The Doors Open

August 22, 2025

Yesterday, I arrived in New York City. As I wrestled with two suitcases, six yellow roses and a backpack down the subway stairs, a kind MTA worker opened the gate for me without asking me to pay. On the F train toward Queensbridge, I asked, “Is this the LIC-bound train?”

A man muttered yes. A woman, gentler, reassured me: “YES.”

Next to her sat the sweetest Rose I have ever met. A Taurus, like my sister and my son. Her mother’s name? Destiny. A Gemini, like me. And—sharing a birthday with my Abuelo. I offer Rose a yellow Rose and she accepts.

Abuelo, once led the “Club Gemini” parties, son of a fellow member too. Ancestral coincidences follow me like echoes. Souls from other lives find me in the most ordinary places—subway rides, train stations, and unfamiliar cities.

Destiny told me she had just come back from the Bahamas for her 29th birthday—the very place I once traveled to with Abuelo after his terminal diagnosis. I had made us matching shirts: Los Vega’s Trip. It was his wish to spend time with the family, even though divisions ran deep. My aunt Rebecca, my uncle, his wife, and grandson came along. My mother stayed behind.

The trip was complicated, but it was ours. And now, on this train, the thread looped again.

⸻

The Walk

When we got off at the same stop, Destiny offered to walk me to my hotel. After nine hours of travel, I was grateful. My father’s sister had driven me to the airport earlier, but the ride was filled with blame toward my mother and sister. Her “help” came with conditions: defend her brother, my father.

I lashed out. Later, I prayed forgiveness. God asks us to bring light and truth with love. My truth came sharp, not gentle.

The truth is this: I have always believed my father a predator. My mother was underage when I was conceived; he was a legal adult. People argue about cultural context, but for me the truth is fixed. My family would rather I stay silent.

With Destiny, though, silence wasn’t required. We stopped at a liquor store—her with a bottle of wine, me with a Bacardi Gold, telling myself I could make new memories with a new rum.

The neighborhood breathed with its own rhythm: children running, neighbors calling greetings, reminders of weekend cookouts. Not perfect, but alive.

⸻

The Room

Room 303.

The smallest, whitest hotel room I’ve ever entered. The sunset glowed behind the clouds, the city whispering memories of the first man who kissed me here—memories of love, karma, and sixteen years of unraveling.

I stripped off my clothes and jewelry—my armor—and laid down on the bed. Vulnerability pressed into me like a weight. Grief followed. Regret, shame, the ache of consequences my children and I live with every day.

And then—

I heard her voice.

⸻

The Choice

I CHOOSE THIS, MAMI.

In a world where her father told me he would “never have chosen this”—me, my brokenness, my battle scars—

her voice pierced through.

I CHOOSE YOU, MAMI.

Don’t you remember me?

I did this for us.

I needed to come back.

To live this chapter with you.

It’s the only way we all heal.

We made the pact lifetimes ago. You just can’t remember it all yet.

Let it unfold.

August 23, 2025

The lo-fi chalet iPhone alarm hums me awake, soft and steady, like a reminder that even in the chaos there can be gentle beginnings.

I rise with gratitude, praying away the racing images of the dreams that had me drowning only moments ago. My Divino Niño candle had gone out overnight. I notice the date—it’s Friday. A day reserved for San Miguel, for revocation and protection. I let the candle rest and begin the holy rosary. Five mysteries, five intentions, each one a rope pulling me closer to God-consciousness and further from the human frailty I wrestle with each day.

The first, for Pope Leo XIV—convivencia.

The second, for the hearts of my parents, that Jesus may weave healing among us.

The third, for my children, whom I do not see daily, that angels cover them in light and mercy.

The fourth, for my siblings and their children, that they may return to the embrace of the Roman Catholic Church.

The fifth, for the healing of my children’s father and his family.

Prayer finishes, I dress, step out for Dunkin coffee, and begin the long journey to New Jersey for a medical exam.

At St. Anastasia—the church my mother-in-law once insisted we should attend—I finally arrive, 2.5 years into our separation. I fill bottles with holy water, light candles beneath Our Lady of Guadalupe and Christ, and place my children into God’s hands once more. As I finish my third mystery, my driver pulls up. His name: Sixto.

My heart freezes—Sixto, the young man who took his life earlier this year. I’d heard the mass intention in church, the whispers of town gossip about infidelity, the grief of a mother who once attacked me and now carries unbearable loss. Sixto left behind two children. Yet here was another Sixto, alive, steady, offering me a ride. God-incidence, again.

In the car, we talk. His daughter lives in Puerto Rico and asks him to join her there. He is Dominican, like the father of my daughter. He agrees to drive me Sunday to see my children. Providence at work.

At the neurologist’s office, I sit through pages of testing. Memory. Focus. Recall. And then—the last page. Questions that cut deep, stirring tears I couldn’t contain.

“Doctor, what is this page testing?” I ask, embarrassed by the sobs breaking through.

“PTSD,” he says softly. “I suspected it would surface.”

Relief and grief collide inside me. At last, a name for the fog, the gaps, the disorientation I’ve carried for years. It is a wound, yes—but also an answer. And I survived. Mother Mary carried me through the last six weeks of that 12-year relationship, and I walked away alive. That is victory.

With no dentist appointment to rush to, I detour to my legal residence for mail, then groceries. At the register, a bouquet of red roses catches my eye—twelve blossoms, full and open, like the twelve stars above Our Lady’s crown. I take them with me.

At the bus stop, I juggle my groceries and roses, running toward a bus that slips away before I can catch it. An SUV blocks its path, and a man lowers his window:

“Where you headed? I tried to hold the bus for you. Can I drive you to the next stop?”

Grateful, I accept. In the backseat: Hudson and Austin, his grandchildren, their innocence softening the sharp edges of my exhaustion. He is taking them to Brooklyn but offers to drive me exactly where I need to go: Botánica La Nueva Milagrosa.

My mother had told me to go, though I hesitated. The commandment is clear: honor thy parents. Mike—this stranger turned chauffeur—delivers me straight to the door. Another sign.

Inside, Danny greets me. A new chapter begins.

Chapter X: The Doors Open

For years I had been searching for signs—anything to prove that the storms I’d endured were not in vain, that my suffering carried weight in God’s hands. I didn’t expect that my pilgrimage would begin in a cramped Botanica on a hot afternoon, with pieces of coconut scattered at my feet.

Danny went right to the point, the entire meeting was maybe 5 minutes long.

“Do you know what this is?”

I shook my head.

“Coconut,” he said. “Yes—you have been battling brujería. But the good news is, it’s finished. You’ll need to wash yourself in a medicinal plant bath, and you will be protected. The doors for your new chapter will open. The doors for your financial abundance will open.”

His voice was steady, not mystical, almost casual—as though he were telling me how to fix a leaky pipe. Then he paused, tilting his head.

“Whose Rose?”

“A little girl I met yesterday,” I answered.

He smiled, satisfied. “Well, she brought you a beautiful angel. That angel is with you and will be with you when you see your children.”

Something in me cracked open. “So… I’ll be okay when I see them? I can hug them?”

Danny’s eyes softened. “Yes. You survived it. It’s done. Light these two candles and you are safe. Leave it all to God.”

He went to the back of the store and returns with a smile on his face. There was only one gallon of premade medicinal plant bath left, a thick plastic jug with a green tone. To anyone else it would look ordinary. To me, it was salvation, the finish line of a marathon against the consequences of my sins. I clutched it with both hands, grateful I wouldn’t need to boil plants in a hotel sink.

At the register, I set the gallon down. My card wouldn’t swipe. Then my phone pinged—account frozen. I tried again. Declined. My stomach dropped.

There was only one account left with money in it: the shared account with my husband, meant to cover the monthly premium of my second life insurance policy. I thought about the irony. An account tied to the idea of my death would now fund my survival.

I walked to the bank with my passport in hand, sweat dripping down my back.

“My debit card expired,” I told the teller. “I can’t recall my account number.”

The young woman—her name tag read Gaby—looked at me kindly. “No problem. We can help.” Her tone was so warm I almost wept.

Within minutes, she handed me sixty-four dollars in crisp bills. Just enough.

Back on the street, I spotted a row of suitcases displayed outside a shop. One had a white feather on it and was just the right size to hold the heavy gallon. I reached for it, but again—declined. My accounts were frozen.

I returned to the Botanica with grocery bags cutting into my palms. As my phone charged, I tried again. And then—miraculously—the identity verification feature that hadn’t worked all week lit up in green. Accounts unlocked. Wide open. Just as Danny had said.

Relief washed over me. I bought three rosaries—one white and two red ones- in the paper bag—to gift forward.

Later, on my way to the bus for my MRI, I walked past the building where I had once stayed with a man who was not my husband. A year ago, I had slept in his spare room for three weeks while undergoing neurological exams. The air inside had smelled of fizzling hope and anxious desire. My mother had stayed with me. I had tried to accept care in a place that was rooted in betrayal.

Now, with a bouquet of red roses in hand, I stopped on the sidewalk. I whispered thanks to God for releasing me from those chains, for guiding me away from what had been both refuge and ruin.

That evening, after the MRI, I sat cross-legged on the grass by the bus stop, suitcase by my side, Modelo beers sweating in their cardboard case. From my bag I pulled the Indian whistle a shaman had once given me. The wood was smooth, warm in my hand. I raised it to my lips and blew seven times—the number of God. The sound was high and thin, carrying into the dusk.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “For bringing me through the trenches.”

⸻

August 23, 2025

I woke at 6:03 a.m. with a jolt, as if someone had tapped me awake. The call was clear: mass. I checked my notes. The Immaculate Conception Church in Astoria held a 7 a.m. service. Just enough time.

I rinsed myself in cold water, brushed my teeth, and slipped into the jean dress I had bought at Costco. On the bus, I fingered the beads of my rosary, whispering each prayer. At the last moment, I hopped off a few stops early.

The air smelled of fresh bagels and fresh Roses blossoming. I walked slowly, taking in the neighborhood—tree-lined streets, stoops painted in faded colors. This was where the man I did not know I would come to love brought me to when suggesting a town for my first solo apartment. Sixteen years ago, I hadn’t known there was someone else in his life. White lies never lead to happy endings… This morning, it simply was what it was.

Inside the church, the cool stone walls swallowed me whole. I carried five yellow roses to the statue of the Miraculous Mary, their petals trembling slightly in my hands. I lit a candle. The flame snapped alive and glowed against the wax.

As mass began, I sat across from Mary. This was my Eucharist after completing all the steps for a plenary indulgence—the remission of temporal punishment for sins already forgiven. A Jubilee pilgrimage in its purest form: prayer, penance, and presence.

I remembered how, just days earlier, my six-year-old niece had tugged my hand and led me unknowingly to a holy site: the future shrine of the Virgen de la Divina Providencia, patroness of Puerto Rico. Only later did I realize the visit had qualified me for my plenary indulgence.

Forgiveness had arrived, not as thunder but as stillness. The aching consequences of my past would cease. Amen.

Walking back from mass, I looked down at the sidewalk. White feathers were scattered in every direction, as though the angels had emptied pillows across my path. I laughed out loud, alone on the street.

The chains were gone. My story was no longer one of survival only. The doors had opened. And on the other side was freedom.