Please know that I am always near,
Even when I am gone,
My love for you will carry on.
I hope you find a love as strong,
As the one that’s carried me along,
A love that’s true and pure and rare,
That will always be there to care.
My Isabella, my precious gem,
Your heart and soul are bright and brimmed,
With love and kindness, grace and light,
May you continue to shine so bright.
I close the letter and slowly put it back in the envelope. I hold it tightly against my chest as I break down once more, my heart breaking all over again.
“What if I’m not strong enough, Dad?” I say, clutching the letter to my heart as if it will bring me closer to him.
Chapter Eighteen
I lay on the bed of our cabin, staring up at the ceiling. The wooden planks above me are stained with watermarks from past leaks hastily missed during the renovation, and the occasional spider crawls lazily across the rough surface. The early morning sunlight shines through the window, casting a glow on the walls. The room is quiet except for the sound of my breaths, which come out in short, shallow puffs. I can feel the weight of the last night on me, each hour adding a little more until I feel as though I’m sinking into the mattress. My thoughts swirl in my head, a jumbled mess of worries and regrets. I know I should get up and do anything to distract myself, but the effort seems too great. So, I lie here, still and silent, and let the thoughts run their course.
As I stare up at the ceiling, patterns emerge in the wood’s knots. I trace their lines with my eyes, following them until they blur and I’m lost in thought once more. My breathing begins to slow, my muscles relaxing as I surrender to the room’s quiet. The worries and regrets fade away for a moment, and I’m left with a sense of peace. I think of my father’s words and feels his love wrap around me like a warm blanket. I imagine his smiling face and the sound of his laughter, and for a moment, I feel as if he is here with me, watching over me.
Eventually, I force myself out of bed. The empty cot across from me is a stark reminder of how things have unraveled. I reach for my laptop on the dresser, crawl back in bed, and open a blank document labeledBusiness Plan—La Mariposa Expansion.
The cursor blinks, taunting me.
I type a few words:Mission Statement. Then I delete them. I try again:Goals. Another delete. I lean back in the creaky chair, letting out a frustrated sigh. Why is this so hard? I’ve been running La Mariposa for years. I know the business like the back of my hand. But every time I try to write something, my mind veers to last night—to the way Valentina’s lips touched Silvana’s, to the look of shock and regret on Valentina’s face when she saw me standing there.
I shake my head and force my fingers back to the keyboard.
La Mariposa is more than just a restaurant—it’s a place where culture meets comfort, where the rich history of Cuban cuisine is celebrated in every bite.I stop typing and read it back. It sounds sterile, like something ripped from a corporate brochure. It doesn’t capture the heart of what my father built.
I close my eyes, trying to summon his words, his passion. He’d always said the food was just as much about the people as the ingredients. “Every dish tells a story,” he’d say. “Every customer leaves with a memory.”
I try again.
Our goal is to preserve the legacy of La Mariposa, a family-owned Cuban restaurant that has served our community for over two decades. Through authentic recipes passed down through generations, we strive to create a welcoming space where people can gather, share stories, and savor the flavors of home.
It’s better, but it still feels incomplete.
I scroll to the section labeledFinancial Projections. My stomach churns as I consider whether to include the full extent of the restaurant’s debt. My finger hovers over the keyboard. Would Luciano still be interested if he knew the truth?
The thought paralyzes me. I can’t lose this opportunity. I can’t let my father’s legacy crumble because I was too honest for my own good.
Instead, I focus on crafting optimistic projections based on potential revenue from an expanded customer base, improved marketing strategies, and the introduction of catering services. I pull numbers from the best months we’ve had and project growth trends as if those months were the norm. It’s not technically a lie—those numbers exist—but I know it’s not the whole truth either.
Projected Growth, I type.With the expansion, La Mariposa is expected to increase its customer base by 40%, generating an estimated 25% profit margin within the first year.
I pause, staring at the sentence. It’s bold but plausible—at least on paper.
