I started crying then. Not quietly. Not neatly.
I cried for the woman I had been. I cried for Sofia. I cried for Mr. Alvarez, who had carried one terrible mistake through years of silence.
He stayed in his chair and let me cry.
When I finally calmed down, I asked, “Why now?”
“Because you came to my door angry.”
I blinked.
He gave a small shrug.
“You were not afraid anymore.”
That answer stayed with me.
Three years earlier, I would have apologized for knocking. I would have accepted any answer. I would have gone back to my apartment and worried alone.
That day, I had demanded the truth.
I had changed without noticing.
I pressed my palm against the paper.
“What about Trixie?”
“The home will be yours. One day, it can be hers.”
“You planned all of this?”
“Not at first.”
“When did you decide?”
He glanced toward the photograph of Sofia and Camila.
