They watched me like I might disappear.
And honestly?
I deserved that too.
So I showed up.
Day after day.
Not with gifts.
With consistency.
I learned their favorite foods. Their fears. Their tiny habits.
One of the boys hated loud doors.
One of the girls flinched if people raised their voices.
They’d been living in survival mode so long, normal felt suspicious.
Laura and I didn’t rush into romance.
We didn’t pretend seven years didn’t happen.
We sat at the kitchen table some nights, after the kids were asleep, and we let the silence tell the truth.
“I thought you chose it,” she whispered once. “I thought you chose her lies.”
I swallowed.
“I chose ignorance,” I admitted. “And I’m sorry.”
Laura’s eyes filled, but she didn’t collapse.
She was stronger than the story my mother tried to write for her.
One day, months later, I found Laura standing by the driveway, staring at the Mercedes.
She looked at me and said softly:
“It still feels like it took you away from us.”
I nodded.
“You’re right,” I said.
Then I handed Armando the keys.
“Sell it,” I told him.
