We Were Perfect

I will forever have my parents to thank for making me interesting.

Turns out, when you uproot your family and move them across an ocean in pursuit of better opportunities and a chance at the American Dream, you automatically instill in your child a sense of patriotism—and a smidge of existential dread.

Leaving home the first time was hard. Sharp, pointy rocks at the bottom of a cliff hard. It broke my little eight-year-old heart to be surrounded by aunts and uncles who wept at the sight of me on the way to the airport, my Tweety Bird backpack bouncing against my shoulders.

I vividly remember their tear-stricken faces as I climbed into the back of the vehicle. The sound of their wails could be heard down the street as we rode away. The last thing I saw before the car turned the corner was my grandma and youngest aunt running after us, crying.

Sounds like a movie, but it’s not. It’s my life.

You can guess, then, what it must have meant to finally get my green card after twenty years. Two decades’ worth of Christmases, birthdays, and special events. Twenty winters, summers, springs, and falls. My aunts and uncles had kids. Their kids grew up. And I, the little darling with sass that they knew, matured, married, and became Mom to two adorable children with too much hair.

Going back felt like a dream. Getting on that plane. Arriving at the airport. The janitor in the Costa Rican airport restroom must have thought I looked crazy with my goofy grin and chipper “¡Hola!” I mean, who in their right mind would be that happy to be in a public restroom? No one. But we already established I’m not in my right mind.

My husband, my children, and I walked through the throng of cab drivers offering a ride. I was looking up from my phone when my eyes immediately gravitated toward a familiar face—a face I’d only seen from the other side of a screen since I was a kid. My uncle.

In a blink, he closed the distance between us, and I was in his arms. He was shorter than I remembered. We cried and cried until I became aware of other faces I recognized, other voices I’d come to know. Then I was hugging and crying from person to person, my heart wildin’, happier than I’d been in as long as I could remember.

At least ten times that day, I thanked God for the invention of waterproof mascara.

How to describe the two weeks that followed? If I had to put numbers to it, I’d say they were made up of 70% pure joy, 10% let’s-pretend-we’re-not-crying-again, 5% rediscovering the reason for my childhood obesity, and 15% trying not to think about having to say goodbye.

I’d be okay for some time. We’d make plans with the family—a cookout, a hike—and everything would be fine. That is, until I noticed that Tía Milly’s hands were the same as mine, plump with dainty fingers. Or that Tía Tina’s hugs smelled like my mom’s.

I about lost it when I ran my fingers through my sixteen-year-old cousin’s hair and realized it was the same texture as my son’s. He would most likely grow up to look just like him.

I arrived with a bucket list. I wanted to take a walk with my grandfather and harmonize with Uncle Luis. I wanted to dance with Uncle Teca and have a conversation with Tía Tina. Nothing too hard. Just regular stuff I’d been dying to do for twenty years.

What I didn’t expect were the cousins. My little cousins.

The oldest of the ones I hadn’t met until now was turning nineteen. The youngest was eleven. When I tell you these kids stole my heart…

I was doing so good until I met them. Got to know them. Got to live life with them.

Not once did I get bitter. Not once did I shake my fist at God for the time lost. But if I ever came close, it was when I found out how downright amazing my cousins were.

They were strong, sweet, and courageous. Family-oriented, selfless, and kind. And the best (or worst) part? They didn’t need me to become those things.

What sixteen- and nineteen-year-old kids would change their twenty-one-year-old quadriplegic sister’s diapers? My cousins, that’s who.

And their sister? Never walked a day in her life, yet always greeted us with the biggest smile you ever did see.

It wasn’t just them. It was the older ones, too. The girl closest to my age, who herded the younger ones like a mother hen but looked more like a Kardashian. The oldest guy, rocking full dad vibes with a wife and two kids, looking like a Latino version of John Cooper from Skillet.

My cousins probably thought I was weird for wanting to stay up the latest and wake up the earliest, but I didn’t want to miss something as beautiful as their groggy faces in the morning for something as useless as sleep.

They wanted to take me places, show me sights, but how could they know?

All I wanted was to attend one of their school functions, help them with homework, do their hair for prom. I wanted to be at their games. Bring the ice cream after their first heartbreak. I wanted to give them advice, get them out of trouble, and occasionally, get in trouble with them.

In the end, I took what I could and held on for dear life.

I got to see my family play with my children. Joke with my husband. Exchange witty banter. I got to lay my head on my grandfather’s shoulder, hold hands with my grandmother, and hand my published novel to a member of each family unit.

It took everything in me not to cover all of their faces with kisses every moment of every day. Not to squeeze them every second. Not to cry like a baby every time they had to go home.

Each day was the same. Until it wasn’t.

That day was different.

Crying. Group hug. 10 AM. Breakfast. Panic attack. 11 AM. Last hugs. Goodbye.

Noon.

Airport. Boarding. Flying.

And once we were back among stars and stripes?

Days in a daze.

Sleepless nights. Soaking my pillow in tears.

Video calls. Smiles. Laughs.

Heart put back together again.

Hanging up.

Crying.

Sound depressing?

I bet.

I bet if you’ve never loved someone so much it hurt just not being around them… If the mere mention of their name never brought you to your knees… If your love was never adulterated, always pure, always beautifully messy, imperfectly amazing…You just wouldn’t know.

You couldn’t know.

Why I’d choose to have my heart broken time and time again rather than forget that, after twenty years—

For two weeks—

They were mine.

And I was theirs.

And we were perfect.

___________________________

A Note From the Author:

Dear Reader,

It's been over three years since I wrote this article originally. In that time I've given birth to another baby girl, become a home-owner, and gotten my United States Citizenship. God has been good to me.

This article marked the beginning of a healing journey for me. This story about my family, what I went through as a young immigrant, and what it was like to lose them--- is the one story I could never write before. It was too painful.

I wish I could go back and tell little me that things would be okay. That little girl that cried herself to sleep when she missed her family. That teenager that hardened herself against them, who wouldn't pick up when they called because it hurt too much to know they still waited for her return. I wish I could tell young-adult-me that those empty seats on my side of the aisle may be painful but I was still incredibly loved. In the end, I got some true healing. It took me twenty-plus years. But what's that in the light of eternity?

I've been back since, with my husband. We plan on returning again with our children. I danced more the second time. I ate more, too. I laughed more. I cried less. I was happy and when it was time to go, I didn't fall apart again. So that's progress.

Thank you for reading this part of my story. Thank you for feeling with me. I hope it's okay that I love you.

Yours,

D.S. Fisichella

Check out more of my work here!

D.S. Fisichella is an Award-Winning Poet, Amazon Best-selling Author of DREAMER, and the creator of The Bible Reading Journal and Tracker. She writes with raw emotion and lyrical depth, blending personal experience with universal themes of love, loss, faith and resilience. Her evocative style captures the beauty and ache of the human heart, making every piece feel intimate and profound. Whether crafting fiction, poetry, or personal narratives, she writes with unflinching honesty, weaving stories that resonate long after the final word.