“Of course,” I told her. “This is your home too.”
A few months turned into a year. A year turned into two. And each time I hinted about her finding a place of her own, she would smile and say, “Soon, Dad. Just a little longer.”
I swallowed my loneliness and told myself this was what family did.
Then Natalia met Andrés.
He was forty-two, divorced, with a ten-year-old son named Bruno. In the beginning, he seemed decent—polite, helpful, affectionate with the kids. Natalia looked brighter around him, like she had finally remembered how to hope.
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