Marco "Maquito"

I used to watch him from the doorway of his office, bent over invoices and contracts well past midnight, the blue glow of the computer screen catching the determination in his face. That's the image that stays with me—Marco at work, building something solid for all of us, brick by brick, decision by decision.

My brother ran his business the way he lived: with a quiet strength that didn't need to announce itself. When problems arose—and they always did—he'd simply nod, roll up his sleeves, and say "I'll do it." Not as a boast, but as a fact. People felt it when he entered a room, that steadiness, like an anchor had been dropped. You could count on him the way you count on sunrise. We called him Maquito growing up, though I'm not sure he ever felt small a day in his life.

What he loved most, though, was stepping away from it all—passport in hand, finding himself in markets in Marrakech or walking unfamiliar streets in Buenos Aires. Travel loosened something in him, let him breathe differently. He'd come back with stories and that rare smile, recharged, ready to shoulder everything again.

I miss his presence more than I can say—that sense that things would be okay because he was there, handling it. He was strong and disciplined in ways that seemed almost old-fashioned now, but those qualities held our family together through everything. That was Marco. That was my brother.