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Chapter 9
Mia’s letter
To the only man I’ve ever loved,
I hope you can find it in your heart to read the words I have poured out on these pages. These are not excuses, but rather, an explanation. I must start from the beginning.
I can remember being six years old. Chasing mariposas as my childish laughter tumbled from me like the weeds blown by the wind outside my parents’ rancho on the edge of Montemorelos, Mexico. The sun was shining, warming my skin. I was so full of joy. I remember it so vividly because that’s the last time I felt truly safe, like nothing bad could ever touch me. When I spotted the dust billowing in the distance, my belly did a summersault with excitement.
Papi was home.
I ran back towards our red clay house to greet him. He’d been gone for two days and I was proud to report I’d fed the animals right on time like he’d requested, and with only a little help from Mamá.
As I neared his empty truck, my parents’ voices drifted out from the kitchen. I drew closer, finding my father and mother both crying. Papi’s face was covered in crimson. My mother tried to clean his wounds as I stood frozen, watching from the lattice. My father had never cried before, and the sight of his face immediately turned my blood to ice.
“If I don’t give them the money they lost when the shipment was stolen . . .” he’d said.
I wish I could go back in time to that moment and ask him to finish that sentence.
Just days later, two men rode out to our ranch. They were clean and well dressed. One of them gave me candy. He struck up a conversation with me, telling me he had a puppy that he’d love to give to me if my papi said it was okay.
Papi had stayed inside since he returned. He’d even slept in the barn rather than our house which had seemed so strange to me. My childlike ignorance is a regret I’ll carry with me to my grave.
The man asked if my papi was home. I’d been taught that lying was wrong, had it instilled in me since I could talk. So, I told the truth and it cost my father’s life.
I had to watch as one man held my mother back while another led my father out of the barn at gunpoint. They asked him if he had the money and he said no. I later found out these men were from the cartel that forced my father to deliver shipments of cocaine when he moved cattle. In those parts, you either do what the cartel says, or you and everyone you love dies.
I watched, at six years old, as they put a bullet into my father’s head. You might think that was horrific, but my story gets so much worse. I realize now they showed mercy to him in his death.
The men threatened my mother, saying if she didn’t find a way to pay his debt, five hundred thousand U.S. dollars, that he’d be back for her and then he’d traffic me. The man who had pulled the trigger looked at me and said, “That little one attracts bad spirits, so I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other sooner rather than later.”
After he left, my mother packed two bags and took all the money she’d saved behind a clay brick by the fireplace. We buried my father and waited until nightfall before we began the long and dangerous journey towards the border.
“The Americans will help us, mija. We will seek asylum,” she told me. That was the day my childhood ceased to exist.
After what seemed like weeks of travel, most of it on an empty stomach and little water, my mother paid a coyote to bring us across the river. The way the man leered at Mamá made my stomach knot tightly. She paid him all the money she had. When we made it to the river, the man demanded more. My mother showed him her empty pockets . . . He said he would take other forms of payment. I clung to her, afraid she’d be taken from me too.
She forced me to stay put. “Close your ears, mija. I’ll be right back.”
It hit me all at once, the tears finally streaming down my face as I cried so hard no sound came out. I didn’t obey; the grunts and whimpers from behind the rocks as my mother used the only currency available to save my life are permanently etched into my brain.
When we all climbed into the rickety raft, the water from the river quickly soaked our clothes. I must have still been crying because the man grabbed my neck and growled, “If you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll drown you in this river myself.”
I’ve never told anyone this. Not even my therapist knows the extent of these details I’m sharing with you. I’ve never been this honest with any other person. The only reason I’m telling you this now is that you’re not the only one who closed off to protect your heart. I love you, no matter what you think of me. You were right that you didn’t know me, and this is me being more vulnerable than I’ve ever been before because I trust you.
Once we reached the border, hungry, tired, wet, and cold, we waited for the border patrol so we could turn ourselves in and apply for asylum. When their truck came into view, my mother cried with relief. I clung to her side, fearing everyone. If past events had taught me anything, it was that no one could be trusted.
Turns out I was right.
My mother was shoved by one officer, and verbally abused. They told us we’d be separated if my mother didn’t give them the drugs they assumed she was smuggling. They told us to go back where we came from. My mother pleaded with them—the one English word she knew, “Asylum!” She repeated it over and over.
The officers had their chests puffed out. Sneering smiles of assumed dominance twisted their faces. They had their hands on their guns, like my mother and I were a threat to them. Power drunk, they grabbed my arm as I screamed for my mother. The one that held me laughed as tears leaked down my face. He put me in the back of his truck, alone and terrified.
Maybe that man who killed my father was right—I did attract the evil spirits. Bad energy. All I knew was that after everything we had been through, America’s welcome was not what we’d expected. That should have been a sign of what was to come. That was the first time I wished I could be buried like my father. If life was this painful, I didn’t want it to continue.
After what seemed like hours, my mother was handcuffed and seated next to me. Her face marred with dirt and streaks from her tears. I closed my eyes and leaned against her. I couldn’t see my mother in any more pain when it was all my fault . . . for telling the truth.
