Many of our roads aren’t paved with gold—or even with the good intentions of Google Maps—
but how do we soothe that silent cry that rises when we lose someone who never should have left?

I never found the answer.
I only knew that I was still a child when I lost my mother—
and not understanding why left me with more than sorrow:
it left me with a calling.
A quiet, burning need to understand what justice means
when the world feels like its opposite.

Somewhere along that winding road—with grief as my compass—I became a lawyer.
Later, a writer. And then, a tutor.
I followed the call of words, because ever since I was little, they’ve felt like home.

My grandfather, who built a career that crossed both borders and breakfast tables, taught me that thought needs direction—and that listening to music and studying should be as routine as brushing your teeth.

Meanwhile, a formidable Dominican nun—half discipline, half vanilla flan—showed me that love is service,
and that the heart can find again what once seemed lost…
especially if you’re willing to share your flan without expecting anything in return.