“Tell his lawyer no,” I said quietly. “A man who left his daughter on a kitchen floor to choke doesn’t get to wish her a happy birthday.”
“Understood, Evelyn.”
That evening, as the sun sank behind the rolling hills of Connecticut and cast long golden shadows across the lawn, Lucía and I sat side by side on the front steps. Rosa brought us a tray of roasted chestnuts and hot chocolate, smiling warmly as she placed it between us.
Lucía took a sip from her mug before resting her head gently against my shoulder.
“Mom?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Are we going to be okay? Just the two of us?”
I looked down at her—her bright, clear eyes, flushed cheeks, and the easy, unburdened rhythm of her chest rising and falling with every breath.
“We aren’t just going to be okay, Lucía,” I wrapped my arm tightly around her shoulders, pulling her close. “We’re finally free.”
And as the autumn wind moved through the trees, carrying away the final remnants of the past, my daughter drew one long, deep breath of the fresh evening air—and smiled.
