Amidst the bustling streets of San Francisco, WhatsApp audio messages become my sole connection to my mother after several years of exile. Now, her yearning for reunion hinges on the fragile hope of the Biden Administration’s Humanitarian Parole for Cubans. Despite everybody around her leaving, she urges me to listen to what I left behind. As I wrestle with the dissonance of academic challenges and the relentless hum of rent worries, my response takes the form of a love letter that echoes my present.

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