Even before I married Jen, I’d always bragged about having the best in-laws. But yesterday morning, I lost one of them. My mother-in-law, Leony, passed away suddenly at the age of 70, surrounded by a loving family who had just had one of the brightest lights in their lives snuffed out.
I met my future mother-in-law in the summer of 2003, about three months after I’d started dating Jen. By that time, Jen had already visited me twice in Rhode Island—once under the guise that she was going to Disneyland with her friend, and again for a two-week trip that I was shocked was even allowed to happen after the first. When it came time to meet her family, I was terrified. Walking up the steps of their Culver City apartment, I catastrophized countless situations.
But when I got up there, I saw a “WELCOME” sign in the back of the room and the glittering smiles of a family eager to meet me. I was taken aback. Leony came to hug me and called me her “hijo”—son, in Spanish. This first meeting set the stage for what would become my relationship with Jen’s family, with her mom at the vanguard: flying to attend my graduation in 2005, supporting us by letting us live with them after we had to escape Seattle following the 2008 financial crisis, giving me free haircuts while she was in beauty school, and the countless, countless family gatherings—every one punctuated by her infectious personality.
Many of my memories of Leony are small parts of larger memories with my in-laws, but there’s one particular memory I can claim for myself. It was 2022, following the dissolution of Altair. I’d entered a deep depressive state, one I can only categorize as “empty anime character’s eyes.” We were at a restaurant celebrating a birthday, and all I remember is sitting there, blankly staring at my menu. I felt a hug with the force of a vice grip wrap around me from behind. It was Leony:
I know you’re going through so much, Bryan. But you are my son. I am proud of you. I am so proud of you. I love you. You are so special to me. Thank you for marrying my daughter. We are here for you. I love you. Please remember that.
There’s a saying that goes “you marry a form of your parents,” and I see a lot of myself in Leony—but her version was more eccentric, more extroverted, and projected at everybody. I used to see it as a difference, but now I see it as a goal. There are countless stories I could tell, but they all have the same glowing, bright, and beautiful protagonist. When I started to close my door, she stuck her leg in to make sure I could never shut it completely. I’m sure many could say the same. After her vice hug, she would continue to check up on me via text, saying prayers and telling me how much I meant to her.
For twenty-two years, I was honored to know her, to help her, and to watch her work her magic on all of us. While there’s a void in our family as large as the absence of our sun, we’ll work to fill it with all the love, liveliness, and generosity she had for life.
Thank you, ma. Te quiero mucho.