I don’t belong here…the bath…the room

Title: I Don’t Belong Here

⸻

SPOTLIGHT on RITA.

She sits in a simple chair, rosary beads in hand.

The world beyond her voice is only suggested—light, shadow, faint sounds.

⸻

RITA

The lo-fi chalet alarm woke me that morning.

Not jarring. Gentle.

Like it knew my heart was too raw for anything else.

I opened my eyes to a burnt-out candle by my bed—

Divino Niño.

It had gone out on its own, and I thought,

of course it did.

Friday.

The day San Miguel takes the fight.

So I prayed. Five mysteries, five intentions.

One for the Pope and the Church.

One for my parents.

One for my children.

One for my siblings.

And yes—one for the father of my children.

Even after everything.

Even after the tearing.

Because that’s what the rosary does.

It sews us together with invisible thread.

(beat, softer)

I lit candles for Our Lady of Guadalupe.

I filled bottles with holy water.

The same water I would later pour into cups,

like an offering, like a shield.

And I thought—

maybe my mother-in-law was right to tell me to come here.

Maybe she saw this day coming before I did.

Then—(scoffs, half-smile)—

the phone buzzes.

The driver’s name: Sixto.

You can’t make that up.

The same name I’d been praying over all year.

A young boy, gone too soon.

A mother, grieving.

And now—

a man driving me through the streets,

telling me about his daughter in Puerto Rico.

I wanted to cry right there in the back seat.

Because my daughter is in Puerto Rico too.

And her father—Dominican.

These aren’t coincidences.

They’re God’s handwriting across my days.

So I asked him,

would you take me to see my kids?

He said yes.

And I thought,

the universe just said yes too.

But the day wasn’t done with me yet.

Later, in the neurologist’s office,

he put down his papers and told me the last test was for PTSD.

And I laughed through my tears—

because of course it was.

Of course it would all come down to that.

A love story turned into a diagnosis.

A wound that never healed.

But I left that office alive.

And alive was enough.

That evening, carrying grocery bags and roses,

I missed my bus.

Just—missed it.

And an SUV pulled up, like a scene from a movie.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“Union City,” I said.

And he opened the door.

And you know,

my mother always offered rides.

So I thought,

this is her mercy being returned to me.

One small grace, wrapped in a stranger’s kindness.

That’s how I arrived at Danny’s Botanica.

Roses still in my arms,

my heart still bruised,

my spirit somehow lighter.

Because God doesn’t just drop miracles out of the sky.

He weaves them through people.

Through moments.

Through names like Sixto,

and candles that burn out just in time,

and missed buses that take you exactly where you belong.

(beat, whispers)

Even when I swear—

I don’t belong here.

LIGHTS DIM.

END.

The Bath

I had to wash myself.

Not with soap, not with perfume, but with a green protective medicinal bath Danny pressed into my hands at the Botanica.

A pre mix, he said.

And there I was, staying in a Manhattan hotel — the same city the man I once loved had first introduced me to, the same neighborhood where temptation and betrayal lived in my memory.

And now? Redemption demanded hot water.

The bath had to be poured steaming, over my body.

I looked around the hotel room — small, white, sterile — and wondered: Where in God’s name am I supposed to boil herbs in here?

But God provides.

A white plastic bowl.

The empty to-go container from last night’s Pad Thai.

I filled it from the sink, steam rising like incense, and I mixed it with the green bath water — thick, pungent, sacred.

And then, cup by cup, I poured it over myself.

Each splash stung, then softened.

Each rivulet carried something away.

I praised God out loud.

With every drop, I felt Him stripping the men from my skin, the legions from my aura, the darkness that had clung to me in twenty years of trying to live without Him.

This moment — it didn’t just start here.

No. It began in September 2024, when I walked into the cathedral of my hometown after twenty years away and confessed my sins. My voice trembling in that confessional, my soul cracking open — that was the beginning.

Since then, every rosary, every mystery prayed, had been a feather falling from my guilt. And now? Now I felt it. The partial indulgences were building toward plenary. Not just forgiveness, but freedom.

I poured the last cup of steaming water down my back, and I whispered: Mercy.

Mercy for the broken heart I had carried.

Mercy for the shattered pieces I now reclaimed.

Mercy for the mysteries of pain that God was filling with compassion.

When I stepped out of that bath, I knew.

I wasn’t carrying them anymore.

Not the men. Not the shame.

Only God’s mercy, clinging like water beads on my skin.

The Room

Room 303.

The smallest, whitest hotel room I’ve ever entered. The sunset glowed behind the clouds, the city whispering memories of the first man who kissed me here—memories of love, karma, and sixteen years of unraveling.

I stripped off my clothes and jewelry—my armor—and laid down on the bed. Vulnerability pressed into me like a weight. Grief followed. Regret, shame, the ache of consequences my children and I live with every day.

And then—

I heard her voice.

⸻

The Choice

I CHOOSE THIS, MAMI.

In a world where her father told me he would “never have chosen this”—me, my brokenness, my battle scars—

her voice pierced through.

I CHOOSE YOU, MAMI.

Don’t you remember me?

I did this for us.

I needed to come back.

To live this chapter with you.

It’s the only way we all heal.

We made the pact lifetimes ago. You just can’t remember it all yet.

Let it unfold.