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Laura Stopiello Díaz
Programa de Literatura con Concentración en Inglés
Facultad de Humanidades, UPRRP
Recibido: 12/09/2025; Revisado: 24/11/2025; Aceptado: 24/11/2025
I wish I could say that seeing an 80-year-old man struggling to crawl out the window is weird for me, but it’s not. Many retired heroes act this way, dementia choosing the identity they remember. I step into the room and push past the old wheelchair he refuses to use. Mom always said I got my stubbornness from him, along with my dark eyes and tan skin. We look different now, though. His eyes have clouded with edges of blurred blue, and his skin has crackled paler over time.
“Absolutely not.” I say, raising a brow at him.
“The world is in peril, I have duties as a hero,” he explains seriously, as if he wasn't wearing a bedsheet as a cape. Shoving past the shabby yellow curtains the nursing home provides, he limps towards me. His episodes come and go, but this one has lasted longer than my patience.
“The only thing in ‘peril’ is your hip, old man.” I pat the spot on the bare mattress next to me as I put down the cardboard box. “Come here, Dad. I need your help with something.”
“I will help you, but I’m not… I’m nobody’s father. I’m Guardian,” he mutters stubbornly.
“Alright, I'm sorry.” I know better than to be hurt by his comments. “Since you’ve solved countless mysteries, could you help me figure out who owns this box? Everything inside seems sentimental; they’ll want it back.”
He nods, carefully taking out a newspaper clipping containing an article about an attack that occurred at a university about sixty years ago. One where everyone survived because the Guardian arrived on the scene so quickly.
“How’d you manage to get there so fast?” I ask, knowing the answer. His brows furrow in frustration.
“I was already there. I was...” He doesn’t finish the thought and instead glares at me. “It doesn’t matter. I saved them, didn't I?”
“Maybe whoever owned this box studied there?” I suggest.
He dismisses me, moving on to a new memento. A postcard of a snowy cabin with the message ‘For Mary Chase, the true hero. I'd give up the world for you’.
“The handwriting… Handwriting is a man's and the message shows romantic relations,” he deduces. However, his voice shifts into confused muttering, he scratches at the stubble on his jaw as he continues, “I– I recognize the scenery, probably flew by it… and the name Mary… Mary Chase is… familiar.”
“It’s quite a pretty name, I wonder what she looked like,” I say, urging him on. I strain to hear his whisper. “I… I… wish I knew.” He looks sad at this, regretful.
I frown, but continue, grabbing a picture out of the box. “Could this be her?”
He gently grabs the photograph, like an archeologist uncovering something sacred. “Yes, that's Mary Chase.” He looks up at me, brow furrowed. “I know her, don’t I?”
“Yeah, you do.” I smile at him, ignoring the sting in my eyes. “Better than anyone in the world, I’d say.”
He glances at her ring. “I married her,” he whispers, thumbing its match. “She let me marry her, the wild woman,” he laughs self-deprecatingly, “She’s always been too bold for her own good.”
“Yeah, mom’s never backed down from a challenge.” I laughed, putting the photo away.
He frowns at me, “What? No no. We never had any children, never… never had the chance. But we did want them. She… had names picked out, real pretty ones.” He mutters, his firm voice fading after every sentence and his focus shifting back to the box. There are a few books, old letters, and a locket. He grips the chain of it, straining through his tremors to open the antique clasp.
For this one, I shift closer to him, putting my hand over his. He looks confused at the image inside, so I point at it and explain, “That’s Mary Chase, and that’s you, helping her hold the baby.”
“The…baby.” he repeats and reads over the transcribed text, which reads ‘Our sweet little Margaret.’
“My daughter, Margaret,” the realization dawning on him, “Mary and Margaret, my reasons for fighting. I could never forget.”
“I know, Dad. I know you couldn’t.” I lie, wrapping my arms around him.
Esta obra está bajo una licencia de Creative Commons Reconocimiento-NoComercial 4.0 Internacional.