At my daughter’s funeral, my son-in-law announced without a trace of shame, “I’m sending the girls into foster care. I deserve a new life.” He had no idea that my three granddaughters had secretly saved the notebook, the recordings, and the truth that would ruin the perfect wedding day he was already planning.

When we entered the house, the silence was deafening. The house smelled of old wood, of the faint ash of the fire that had long ago been extinguished, of the lingering scent of the soup I would soon make.

I lit the stove, the flame licking the bottom of the pot, and began to prepare a simple chicken soup. The broth bubbled, steam rising, carrying with it the scent of onions and garlic. I tore off a fresh tortilla, warmed it on a skillet, the sound of it crackling like distant fireworks.

Renata slipped into a chair, her small hands clutching one of Rosa’s blouses, the fabric soft from years of wear. She fell asleep almost immediately, her breathing even, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Abril clung to my hand, refusing to let go, her eyes wide and unblinking, as if she expected the walls to shift at any moment.