The Promise We Keep

When my brother died, people kept telling me that grief was about letting go. They meant well, but they didn’t understand. My grief has never been about letting go — it has been about holding on. Holding on to love, to memory, to the pieces of him that still live in the people he left behind.

Before he passed, my older brother Juanjo and I made a promise — not spoken in some dramatic moment, but understood in the quiet way siblings understand each other. We promised that we would take care of his kids. Not as replacements, not as heroes, not because anyone expected it, but because love demanded it. We promised to be whatever they needed: siblings, parents, cousins, mentors, or simply the adults who would always show up. Financially, emotionally, spiritually — whatever it took.

To this day, we keep that promise.

For me, it shows up most clearly in my bond with my niece, María Valeria (or Vale/Mari Vale as I call her). She’s turning fourteen in two weeks, which feels impossible because in my heart she is still the little girl who used to grab my hand and pull me into her world without hesitation, or when I used to pick her up and show her around the places we were at, or when I used to feed her food as a child, or when I held her as an infant. Now she lives in Seattle, far from Costa Rica, yet somehow closer to me than ever. We text every single day — voice messages, jokes in Spanglish, little updates about our lives (even TikToks and comment sections). We FaceTime at least once a month, but the calls feel like we’ve never missed a day. She tells me things she won’t tell anyone else, and I tell her things I’ve never said out loud. It’s a sisterhood disguised as an aunt-niece relationship.

Maybe that’s why the promise feels less like a duty and more like a privilege.

I feel the same way about my nephews. Adrian, the oldest, is in Seattle too, though he’ll be moving back to Costa Rica in 2026. My other nephew is still in Costa Rica, busy with school and university, building his own life. But even with the distance, the bond is strong — WhatsApp messages, jokes, birthdays, big moments, tiny moments. They are part of my heart, always.

What people don't see is that my older brother has been the anchor in all of this. He sacrificed so much — first for our brother when he was sick, and now for our niece and nephews. He calls them, guides them, teaches them how to become good men. And in his own way, he teaches me how to keep our promise too. He leads with love, not obligation.

I can’t wait to be financially stable so I can support them the way he does. But I also know that what I give them now — time, attention, laughter, comfort, presence — matters just as much. My promise lives in the everyday things: answering their messages even when I’m tired, remembering their tests and birthdays, being the person they can count on without hesitation. Being the “tía” (although it feels weird when they call me that) who shows up.

I think about my brother a lot when I’m with them. I imagine the man he would have been when he saw all of his children as adults — attentive but soft, funny but protective, the kind of father who would’ve adored them not matter what, just like always. And sometimes I ache knowing he won't see them as adults, or them not having him there for advice for when they are adults.

But then I look at the bond Juanjo and I have built with them during these past 3 years , and I realize something: this is how he stays alive. Not just in memory, but in the love we continue, the care we give, the relationships we build with them every day. Our promise wasn’t just to him — it was to them. And maybe even to ourselves.

Soon, I’ll be moving to Seattle too. Closer to my niece. Closer to Adrian (even if it is for a few weeks since he's moving in July). Closer to the life that keeps unfolding even after loss. I’m excited in a way that feels almost sacred — like I’m stepping into the future my brother would’ve wanted for all of us.

Because this promise isn’t heavy. It’s a blessing. It’s the way we keep loving him. It’s the way we keep loving them.

This is how a family grows around a loss — not by collapsing, but by expanding. By choosing each other again and again.

And that is the promise we keep. Always.