Crystel walked left on the beach. I walked right. We were done with each other for the day. Discovering the wonders of El Paredon, on Guatemala’s Pacific coast, would be done alone. I was not willing to follow her, and she was not willing to follow me. The blue ocean was anything but quiet. It roared with its own intensity, a restless turbulence wrestling against itself. Beyond the break point, surfers waited. Under my feet, the striking black volcanic sand glimmered with heat and stretched as far as I could see. Tall palms and weathered beach huts dotted the coast.

Earlier that morning at the surfboard rental hut, she had said it again, sharp and familiar, “You don’t have to talk for me.” This had become her refrain at twenty-one years old. I’d thrown up my hands, “I was just asking which board might be easier for you to surf with.” This was who we were now. Crystel couldn’t let me parent, and I couldn’t stop being her parent.

Eventually, we would circle back. We always did.

I walked toward a tangle of driftwood and chose it as my turnaround point. Somewhere between that black sand and the roaring ocean, the joy of being with her returned.

At a beachside restaurant, wooden tables were planted right into the sand. A thatched roof swayed gently above, letting the warm air carry the sound of waves through the open sides. Surfboards leaned in a tidy stack nearby. Backpackers drifted in and out: sunburned, barefoot, unhurried. Mellow music floated from a speaker behind the bar. I texted Crystel the name of the place. This time, she didn’t ghost me. When the message bubble appeared with her reply, I felt surprise first then thrill. We weren’t done with each other after all.

The next morning, I brought her a smoothie and pastry in bed. I’d been up for hours, already through my own breakfast, the typical Guatemalan spread of eggs, refried beans, plantains, tortillas, fruit and endless coffee. I lounged beside her considering our air-conditioned room. It was the exact opposite of our homestay, almost unsettling pristine. It felt new, as if someone had built it yesterday and aired it out just for us. The walls were off-white. No pictures. No nails or hooks. No sign that anyone had ever stayed here before. Fresh white towels lay folded in perfect stacks. Crystel was curled up in starched sheets, a quiet bundle in a bed that felt too clean to be real.

There was no furniture. Just the bed, the air-conditioning, and Spanish music drifting from the TV.

I had gotten what I asked for, but would it work? Would four days of salt air, sun, rest, and a spotless hotel room loosen the grip of the PTSD that held tight beneath my ribs? Would this respite from dirt, crumbling sheetrock, clutter, and questionable bedding reset my body?

At last, I had a night of sleep, my body no longer on high alert, scanning for danger. I slept, truly slept. Before we left our homestay, I folded my scratchy blankets and placed the dingy sheets beside the washer, hoping a simple wash would be enough and that somehow, I could carry this newfound tranquility forward.

Our push-pull relationship momentarily eased. From the beach, I watched Crystel battle the surf, fighting against the relentless beach break. Waves slammed in from all directions, crashing into each other. Even mounting her board was a struggle. Still, she kept at it, and ultimately, like I knew it would, determination pulled her through. We strolled the dusty streets of El Paredon, followed her restaurant recommendations, and watched the sun go down side by side.

In the taxi back to our homestay, my stomach tightened. Four and a half hours ahead of us. It started as a cringe then expanded into worry. Can I do this? Will this time away be enough? I wanted it to be. I wanted what Crystel wanted, an authentic Guatemalan home, language immersion, community, conversations around the table. But the farther we drove the more numbness seeped in. That old childhood response, the one my body learned when danger was close. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure any length of time away would be enough. As the landscape shifted outside the window, I could feel my peace slipping away.

“I put your washed bedding back on the bed,” said Maria. She pulled me in for a grandmotherly hug. A bowl of warm soup and tortillas waited for us on the table.

I went to find Crystel.

“Mama Beth,” she whispered, “I think the little boy slept in my bed while we were gone. Stuff is moved around.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No. I just ignore it. I don’t think about it.”

Crayola markings covered the wall. This was probably his room when there were no guests. When we arrived, he likely slept with his parents. I had asked Crystel before we left for El Paredon if she’d like her sheets washed too. She had declined. “I just don’t think about it,” she repeated.

That night, I spread my washed sheet back over the mattress, though it still looked unclean like it had held on to someone else’s sleep. Before I layered the heavy wool blankets, I inspected the sheet closely. I searched for any sign of fleas. If I saw a patchy shadow, I pressed my finger to it to see if it moved. On one faded spot, I found the shell of a bug, small as a seed, light as paper still clinging to the fabric.

I crawled into my extra-large sleep sack, long enough to swallow my whole body and still fold over the pillow. I slid into it feet-first and pulled it up past my shoulders. The top flap had an extra panel, meant to tuck over a pillow, but I used it like a barrier, a clean layer between me and whatever might be hiding in the bedding. I cinched the hood around my neck and pulled the pillow flap across my face like a shield. It wasn’t just something to sleep in. It was something to hide in.

Sleep would not come. My body stayed alert. Racing. Listening. Braced for danger. It felt like being sixteen again, waiting for the fight in my parents’ bedroom to turn violent. There was no fighting in this house, but the clutter, dirt and disarray were enough. They carried me back in time.

“I should be able to do this,” I kept telling myself.
“It’s not so bad.”
“I can handle it.”

But those were the exact words I used to survive my childhood. Back then, I had no choice.

Here I did. I wasn’t the abused girl anymore. I could choose differently now.

That realization changed everything.

The next morning, before breakfast, I started researching hotels with kitchenettes. My worry about the homestay family losing money faded, our stay had already been paid. Jody supported me leaving, she had listened to my tears too many times. I just didn’t want to disappoint Crystel. I had let her lead our days, pick restaurants, navigate cobblestone streets, but this choice was mine. I didn’t need to keep trying to make this work.

I made the reservation, and instantly, the guilt arrived. It felt like I was going to get in trouble, really in trouble. As if someone might hit me, punish me for speaking up. A part of me felt like I’d told on someone. Betrayed them. What would happen now? Would they stop talking to me? Reject me? A bad thing was coming, I could feel it.

This had happened before.

When I reported the incest in my family to the police, the same thoughts spiraled through me, What will they say? What will they do to me? Who will I lose? And all those fears came true. They did reject me. They did ostracize me. I already knew this terrain, the ground where doing the right thing still carries a cost. I’d paid this price before, and my body remembered it before my mind did.

When I told Crystel I had made a hotel reservation for us her face fell. And then I had to ask her to tell the family we wouldn’t be living there.

Punishment didn’t come. A reflex older than motherhood. Maria gathered us in for a family photo, her, her daughter, her son-in-law, their five-year-old son, and us. Crystel and I were folded seamlessly into their circle. Grief, relief, and tears rose up all at once. Once again, I was leaving family.

Of course, our last breakfast at the homestay was Crystel’s “BEST EVER” and she was slow to meet me out front.

At sixty-five, I had finally learned that caring for my mental health was not selfish, it was necessary. I honored myself, and in doing so, I preserved the part of me that could love my daughter fully.

Crystel and I stepped forward, not perfectly, but together. I couldn’t stop the waves, inside or out, but I could decide how I met them.