"Why do good people die first?" my mom asked me this afternoon. "I guess because people die anyway" I replied. There are few adults whom I respected when I was in my twenties, and certainly "el Chato" was one of them. I was married to his son, and he took me in as part of their family. "Everyone talks about Javier's father," I recall Zoe telling me, "he owns a house in the woods that is open to welcome everyone. He even has a notebook for his anonymous guests to leave him messages." I still remember when he took Javier and me to buy a refrigerator for our apartment, which we never bought (we decided to live at the annex at his mother's house), going to the movies with him every Wednesday, his jokes and the way he managed to live lightly. I remember his blue jeans, his white truck, his boots and all the stories Javier told me about him. But most importantly, I remember when I belonged to his family, and this idea makes me cry. There are ties that are hard to break, and some are just meant to remain with us for all of our lives. "He left happy," Javier said when I called him this afternoon, "I tried calling you to let you know, but I dialed the number of another Brenda on my address book", he said laughing.