The Rhythm She Chose, The Weight We Carried

Growing up, I often wondered what life would have looked like if my mom had sought the professional help she needed to pull herself out of the toxic rut with my dad. Maybe she could have found peace within herself, and maybe she could have raised us with that same peace. Instead, once the divorce was final, she decided freedom meant living her life outside of us.

My mom loved salsa dancing. Music lived in her bones. She even called herself a percussionist, and she wasn’t wrong. At family parties, she was the center of attention—forming circles, teaching steps, and showing rhythms on anything that could carry a beat. I won’t deny it: watching her dance was magic. Even I wanted to learn from her.

But behind the rhythm, life was unsteady. My sisters were still young, not even teenagers, when I left home at 18. I rented a room, worked three jobs, and put myself through trade school. Meanwhile, my sisters slept in the living room of a one-bedroom apartment while my mom claimed the big bedroom for herself. If she wanted to go out dancing and I couldn’t babysit, she would leave them alone.

We were lucky, in some ways. Our building was filled with neighbors from all over the world. Diversity shaped us—music, food, languages—it was the gift in the chaos, and for that I’m grateful. But it didn’t make the reality at home any easier.

My dad was living in another borough by then, fighting his own battles. His alcohol abuse, combined with his HIV status, left his body fragile. His liver began to fail, and he spent more time in and out of the hospital. Still, I stayed in touch. I visited him often, checked in weekly, and sat with him through the decline. Sometimes he had small gifts for me—tokens from his job as the head carpenter at a prestigious department store. My dad could build anything he put his heart into; his hands knew how to create, even if his life fell apart in other ways.

Now, standing in midlife myself, I can’t help but wish he were still here. I wish both of them had chosen differently—for themselves and for us. My mother chose escape in music. My father drowned in his demons. And I… I chose survival.