Page 82 of Hate That Blooms
Mireya is sitting cross-legged on the floor beside me, beads scattered around her. She’s been trying to make a new bracelet—her fingers delicate as she picks up the small pieces of colorful glass—and she’s getting better at it. I can’t help but smile as I watch her concentrate, her tongue sticking out in the way it always does when she’s focused.
I hear the door open, and then his heavy boots on the wooden floor.
“Hey, you two,” Joaquín calls out, his voice tired but warm.
“Papa!” Mireya yells, immediately dropping the beads, the little glass pieces spilling across the floor like tiny stars. She jumps up and runs to him, her arms open wide. “You’re home!”
I laugh softly, shaking my head as I watch her launch herself into his arms. She’s still got that excitement in her voice, the one she’s had since she was four years old. Joaquín laughs too, his deep voice a sound of comfort as he lifts her up, spinning her around. He’s always had a way of making her feel safe, no matter what kind of day she’s had.
“Hola, mijita,” Joaquín says, his hands gently lifting her off the floor. “How was your day?”
“Good!” Mireya grins. “I made a new bracelet, andMamahelped me do my exercises.”
I catch Joaquín’s eye from across the room, and he gives me a tired smile. I’ve seen that smile a million times in the last few years—the one that saysI’m here, and that’s all that matters.
“Mama’sdoing a great job with your therapy, huh?” Joaquín says, his tone a little teasing as he sets her down and pats her head.
Mireya nods enthusiastically. “She is! But now I get to see you! You’re home!” She beams, running back to her beads, picking them up with determination.
I let out a small sigh, frustrated but not really upset. It’s hard to keep things neat when she’s working on her crafts, but the mess is always temporary. It always is.
“Hey, come here,” Joaquín says, walking over to me and slipping his arms around my waist from behind. He pulls me against his chest, and for a second, everything feels at peace. His body is warm against mine, his scent—earthy and familiar—settling into my senses. “¿Cómo está mi Reina?(How are you my queen?)” He whispers in my ear.
I lean into him, letting out a sigh of relief. The weight of the day, the constant hustle of life, falls away for a moment, and I just focus on him. “Tired. I’ve been helping Mireya with her therapy and keeping her focused. I swear she has the energy of ten kids. It’s like she never stops.”
Joaquín chuckles, his fingers lightly tracing the curve of my waist. “That’s just her way. But you’re doing great,Hermosa. You always do.”
I close my eyes, letting the warmth of his words sink in. This has been my life now—us. Together. There are days when it’s overwhelming. When I feel like I can’t take on any more, but then Joaquín is there, his steady presence a reminder that I’m not doing this alone.
Mireya shouts from the other room, making us both glance over. “Papa!Come see my bracelet!”
“Let’s go see it,” I say with a smile, but my voice is soft, a little tired.
Joaquín nods, kissing the top of my head before he lets me go. “I’ll check on her. You start dinner?”
“Yeah, I’ll start dinner. It’ll be quick—arroz con pollotonight.”
I watch him walk into the living room, his shoulders broad and his walk strong but slow, like he’s just exhausted enough to let himself relax. His job is so physically demanding, but I know he loves it. He thrives on hard work, and I admire that about him.
As I move about the kitchen, I can hear the low murmur of their voices in the next room. Mireya’s excited chatter fills the space as she shows off her beading project. I pull a pan out of the cupboard, my thoughts drifting toward how much has changed in the past year. How much we’ve changed.
Last year, we were just getting used to being engaged after years together. Joaquín and I aren’t just partners in life anymore—we’re a team. And Mireya? She’s the glue holding it all together. The wedding was small, but beautiful nonetheless.
The sound of Joaquín’s laughter filters through the wall, and I smile to myself as I chop up vegetables. This is what family feels like—small moments, fleeting but perfect, woven together by the love we share.
Dinner is simple, and I call them to the table just as the food’s ready. Mireya is already at the table, her hair messy from playing and beads still scattered around her. Joaquín’s hands are rough from a long day of work, but his smile is soft, his eyes full of the quiet affection he always shows me. We settle around the table, and for a while, the conversation is light. Mireya tells us about her day at school, and we laugh, just happy to be in the same room.
When dinner is done and Mireya’s in bed for the night, I find myself exhausted in a different way. I’ve been running on empty for a while now, but it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t trade this for anything.
I look at Joaquín as we clean up together, and I know he’s just as tired as I am. His shoulders are slumped, his usual bright energy dimmed by the long hours he’s been putting in. He smiles at me—that soft, knowing smile that makes me feel like the luckiest person in the world.
“I’m going to hop in the shower,” he says, turning off the faucet and leaning against the counter.
I nod, wiping my hands on a towel. “I’ll join you in a minute. Let me finish up in here.”
He grins. “Hurry,Reina. I need some company in there.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s a warmth in my chest that spreads through me. I walk toward the bathroom after finishing the dishes, and as I step inside, the soft steam from the hot water greets me. Joaquín is already standing under the spray, his back to me. The sight of him, tired but relaxed, hits me in a way I can’t describe.
