Dear Reader,

Most grief books end the same way.

The author gets to the part where they’re grateful. Not for the death. They’re careful about that. Grateful for what it taught them. How it made them deeper. How they’re a better, softer, more present person now that the worst thing happened. The dead spouse becomes a teacher. The loss becomes a gift.

I’m not going to do that to you.

There’s no chapter where I figure it out. There’s no moment where I stand on a beach at sunrise and realize Vanessa’s death was secretly the beginning of something beautiful. She didn’t die so I could grow. She died because she died. The end.

I keep waiting for the part of grief where it turns into a lesson. People promise it’s coming. They tell you that one day you’ll look back and see how far you’ve come. Like grief is a hiking trail and there’s a scenic overlook at the top.

There’s no overlook. The arm never grows back.

You want to close the book knowing the author is okay. You want permission to stop worrying about them. A book that ends with “and then I was healed” lets you put it on the shelf and feel good.

This one doesn’t let you do that.

I’m a good daddy. Luciana is okay. We’re surviving. But surviving isn’t a lesson. You learn to live with what you got.

I’m not stronger, braver, or some kind of superhero because I can take care of my daughter when I can barely take care of myself. I just don’t have a choice.

Here’s what I can promise. I’ll be honest, even when the truth makes everyone look bad. And somehow, in the middle of all of it, it’s still funny.

If you want the version where it all works out, there are a thousand books for you. They’re lovely. People love them. I love them. Or I used to.

This isn’t one of them.

Besitos,

Michael

Dear Reader,

My mom liked the book. And before you go “well duh, of course your mom is going to like the book,” I talk shit about my mom in this book.

Nobody escapes the arrows in this book. Not my mom, not Vanessa’s mom, not even Luciana, and of course not me. The closest is Vanessa, but I explain why in the book.

My mom still liked the book after reading it. Most books about grief, everyone close to them is always perfect. They help out so much. They never make mistakes. The only people who get crapped on at all are usually people who have no stakes in getting ripped apart. Like insurance people or bystanders who nobody cares if you say crappy things about them.

That is just not how things work.

People are human. People mean well. People still suck. And acting like everyone is there for you and never messes up is not my experience. Just because people mean well doesn’t mean they don’t bring their own biases into how you are supposed to grieve.

My mom still liked the book. In fact, she gave me an even bigger compliment. She called it compelling. That was after reading about a huge fight I had with her.

That’s the type of book you are getting if you read this. I promise a certain form of honesty, and the book delivers on that.

Besitos,

Michael