The magnitude of some of my fuckups is impressive. Yes, we’re human and we make mistakes, but what happens when you make an irreversible one, when it generates a regret that will not quiet down as long as you live?
You were on the opposite spectrum of that. The regrets you possibly had were that you’d been braver, done more for and with your family, reacted differently when someone disagreed with you, apologized when you crossed a line, or at least changed the tone and direction of your monologues instead of walking away. Mine are all that, and then some – taking action, but such that comes from desperation, not reason.
You never knew how to read the room, and you always walked away rather than faced a disagreement. Nobody understood you except me, and all that was left was to accept you as you were. Dealing with you as you were, though, meant that others had to adapt and choose how to respond and behave around you in order not to insult you. You were incredibly easy to offend. I chose to give you my love, softness, and patience. Loving you was difficult, softness easiest, and I ran out of patience eventually. Guess what? You noticed only the last. I know because I felt it, you brought it up with Mom, and you wrote about it in your diary. Brother and Mom found your diaries and read them. I still haven’t.
We established and maintained a line of communication. It was controlled, almost clinical, but soft. It was easy to be soft at a distance, when I wasn’t there. Rarely did we reach out to each other out of a real need to know what was going on. It felt more like a duty — something we did because it was the right thing to do, especially after too much time had passed. When you’d write to me, it would be on a Saturday or Sunday. You never failed to tell me about the weather and you’d tell me you were fine most of the time, or that you had a cold, threw your back, or your sinuses were acting up. You’d send me funny videos of animals, or songs that brought you to tears occasionally. You’d ask how I was doing. Sometimes I’d write a longer paragraph about things I was struggling with at work, hoping you’d tell me what to do. Your reply was always gentle, caring, and consoling, but didn’t really help, because you had no real life experience. I still I cherished it and took away something. So, I’d mostly tell you I was fine too and what the weather was like here. We’d end every interaction with a version of: ‘Sending love and take care.’ I don’t know if I ever said: ‘I love you.’ outright and cleanly. I think I always went about it sideways, saying things like: ‘Your daughter loves you.’
You see, I can’t check anymore. We exchanged messages on Nov 8th, 2025. I knew something would happen. My intuition had never been sharper. It’s as if I knew the day I’d get a call from Mom.
When I visited last summer, I saw you walking home from the shop. You were walking too slowly, and breathing too heavily, and I rushed toward you to get the bags from your hands, even though you said you were fine. Not long after, you revealed to Mom that you had a health concern. You were never the type to go to a doctor, so that admission carried weight. From that moment, Mom went into action, making appointments for you to see this doctor and that doctor. Every day after that, I dreaded the worst. And then it came, at the worst possible moment. You were gone on Nov 10th.
But I don’t have all our messages anymore. The last one I still have is from May 18th, 2024, after I told you Ante had passed. You see, I fucked up majestically. I lost my phone on Jan 31st, 2026 when I was in Lisbon.
…
Helena to you 