They never discussed Alejandro.
They didn’t need to.
Sergio lifted his wineglass. “I still wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t forgotten my cell phone on your side table that night.”
Mariana smiled softly as she looked toward the city lights outside. “It probably would have taken me a little longer.”
“To leave him?” Sergio asked gently.
“To remember who I was.”
A year later, Mariana’s life belonged entirely to her.
She bought a charming, bright bungalow close to the hospital with a small garden behind it.
She no longer hated Alejandro.
Hatred required energy she preferred spending on patients, friends, and peace.
One morning, before leaving for an early trauma rotation, Mariana paused in the hallway.
A framed photograph sat on the console table.
Lucía, smiling brightly beneath the summer sun.
“I’m heading into work now, sweetie,” Mariana whispered softly, touching the edge of the frame.
She picked up her stethoscope, opened the front door, and stepped into the crisp morning air.
No one was telling her to hide inside a bedroom anymore.
And for the first time in seven years, she needed nobody’s permission to live her life.
