Chapter 125 Both Homes Are Waiting

Chapter 125 Both Homes Are Waiting
Maritza sat on the edge of Soledad’s old bed, the quilt pulled around her shoulders like armor. The room was dark except for the faint glow of her phone screen—3:07 a.m. New York time. She stared at Cole’s contact photo: him holding Xavier at six weeks old, both of them asleep on the couch, Xavier’s tiny fist curled around Cole’s finger. Her thumb hovered over the call button.
She pressed it before she could talk herself out of it.
The line rang twice.
Cole answered on the third ring, voice thick with sleep but instantly alert. “Ritz? Everything okay?”
She closed her eyes at the sound of him—low, rough, safe. “I’m okay,” she whispered. “I just… I needed to hear you.”
A rustle on his end—sheets shifting, the soft creak of the mattress. “Hey,” he said softer. “Talk to me.”
Maritza exhaled shakily. “I read Abuela’s letter.”
Silence. Then, gently: “And?”
“She told me to dance in the rain.” A small, broken laugh escaped her. “She knew I’d come back here angry. Grieving. Still trying to be perfect. And she told me to stop. To forgive when I can. To walk away when I can’t. But mostly… to live.”
Cole’s voice came through warm, steady. “She always knew you better than anyone.”
“I miss her,” Maritza said, voice cracking. “I miss her so much it hurts. But sitting in her chair tonight… I felt her. Not as a ghost. As… permission. To stop running between who I was and who I am.”
She heard him shift again—probably sitting up now, running a hand through his hair the way he did when he was listening hard.
“I talked to Elena today,” she continued. “In the fields. At dawn. She told me she’s staying—permanently. Running operations here. Raising Soledad Isabella here. And she asked me… she asked me to share it.”
Cole waited. No interruption. Just listening.
Maritza swallowed. “I want to come home, Cole. Both homes. Summers and holidays here in Mexico—the kids running through the fields, learning to taste agave the way Abuela taught me. The rest of the year in New York—the brownstone, the stoop, the park, the noise, the life we built there. I want Xavier to have two languages, two skies, two grandmothers who love him. I want Soledad Isabella to know her tía Maritza isn’t just a face on a screen.”
She took a breath. “I want us to split time. Permanently. Not because I’m running away from New York, but because I’m finally brave enough to claim both places. Both pieces of me.”
Silence stretched—long enough that she started to panic.
Then Cole spoke, voice thick. “Then come home, Ritz.”
She let out a shaky laugh. “Which one?”
“Both,” he said. “Both homes are waiting.”
Tears spilled over. She pressed the phone harder against her ear, as if she could pull him through the line.
“I already looked at the calendar,” he continued, softer now. “We can do June through August here—full summers in Mexico. The kids can run wild, get dirty, learn Spanish from Elena and Isabella. Then September through May in Brooklyn. School, friends, the park, your rooftop agave pots. We’ll fly back for holidays—Thanksgiving in New York, Christmas at the hacienda. Birthdays split however we want.”
Maritza smiled through tears. “You’ve thought about this.”
“I’ve thought about nothing else since you left,” he admitted. “I knew the second you said you were staying longer that you’d come back with this look in your eye. The one that says you’re ready to stop choosing.”
She laughed again—quiet, watery. “You know me too well.”
“I know you’re the woman who rebuilt an empire while nursing our son on video calls. Who forgave her sister after everything. Who still finds room to love even when it hurts. Of course I know you’d want both.”
Maritza wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “What about your firm?”
“It’s portable,” he said. “I’ve already got associates handling most of the day-to-day. I can take the New York bar cases and fly back for hearings when I need to. We’ll make it work. We always do.”
She pictured it—Xavier chasing butterflies through the agave rows in summer, then riding the subway in winter with his little backpack. Soledad Isabella learning to walk in the hacienda courtyard, then learning to read in Prospect Park. Cole in a suit in Manhattan courtrooms, then barefoot on the veranda with a beer and a baby on his hip.
“I want that,” she whispered. “All of it.”
“Then it’s ours,” he said simply.
Xavier’s small cry drifted through the monitor—hungry, sleepy, insistent.
Cole chuckled. “Sounds like someone knows his mama’s voice.”
Maritza smiled. “Go feed him. Tell him Mama’s coming home soon.”
“I will,” Cole said. “And Ritz?”
“Yeah?”
“Dance in the rain for me tonight. Just once.”
She laughed—soft, full. “I will.”
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you more.”
The call ended.
Maritza stood, walked to the window, and opened it wide. The night air rushed in—cool, scented with agave and promise. Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall—soft at first, then steadier.
She stepped out onto the veranda.
The rain touched her face, her hair, her skin.
She lifted her arms.
And she danced.
Slow circles at first—barefoot on the cool tiles, skirt swirling, tears mixing with rain. Then faster—laughing through the sobs, spinning until she was dizzy, until the grief and the joy and the love all tangled together into something bright and unbreakable.
Elena appeared in the doorway—sleep-rumpled, Soledad Isabella on her hip.
Maritza stopped, breathless, grinning.
Elena stared at her for a long moment.
Then she stepped out into the rain too.
Soledad Isabella squealed as the drops hit her face.
Elena laughed—low, delighted—and started to sway with her daughter.
Maritza joined them.
Three generations dancing in the rain—mother, daughter, sister, aunt, grandmother in spirit.
The three of them moved together—mother, sister, niece—until the rain slowed to a drizzle, then to scattered drops, then to nothing. The air smelled clean, renewed. Maritza stopped, breathing hard, chest open, heart full.
Elena stepped close, pressing her forehead to Maritza’s.
“We made it,” she whispered.
Maritza nodded, tears and rain indistinguishable on her face.
“We did.”
Soledad Isabella yawned, nestling deeper into her mother’s shoulder.
Maritza looked up at the clearing sky—stars beginning to pierce through the thinning clouds.
Somewhere in Brooklyn, Cole would be waking soon, lifting Xavier from his crib, kissing his son’s dark head, whispering “Mama’s coming home soon.”
Both homes were waiting.
And for the first time in years, Maritza felt neither torn nor lost.
She felt whole.
The rain had washed the last of the ashes away.
Now only green things grew.