PART 42
The hotel bill was mine anyway.
That made things simpler.
The ballroom flowers went to hospitals.
Food was donated to shelters and staff.
The cake?
Lucas chose one layer.
Chocolate.
He ate two pieces.
Sofia ate half of one in the hospital.
I ate one at midnight.
That was our reception.
Better guest list.
PART 43
Sofia stayed with me after discharge.
Not because she needed supervision medically.
Because she did not want to be alone.
Neither did I.
Lucas filled my house with toys.
Cars.
Blocks.
Dinosaurs.
Monica had once complained my home looked “too lived in” whenever Lucas visited.
After the wedding, I let him spread toys everywhere.
Petty.
Satisfying.
PART 44
One night, Sofia found me staring at the forged deed.
She said.
“Stop.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“You keep looking at the documents like they’ll explain why.”
She was right.
I had been searching for motive inside paperwork.
Money.
Control.
Greed.
But those did not explain why I ignored signs.
That question belonged to me.
PART 45
I started therapy.
Yes.
At sixty-one.
I hated the idea.
Then hated how useful it was.
My therapist asked.
“What did Monica give you emotionally?”
I said.
“Companionship.”
“Attention.”
“Warmth.”
Then.
“Youth.”
That word surprised me.
Not hers.
Mine.
Being with Monica made me feel less old.
More alive.
Chosen.
After my wife died eight years earlier, loneliness had settled into me.
Monica entered that space.
I wanted the story to work.
So I protected it.
PART 46
My late wife’s name was Elena.
Not the same Isabel from another life.
Elena Salazar.
We were married thirty-one years.
Cancer took her.
Sofia was twenty-six.
Lucas did not exist yet.
After Elena died, the house became silent.
Too silent.
I traveled.
Worked.
Ate dinner alone.
Then Monica arrived.
She laughed easily.
Touched my arm.
Asked about music.
Travel.
Food.
Not death.
I mistook relief for proof.
PART 47
Therapy did not make Monica’s crimes my responsibility.
Important.
But it helped me understand why warnings slid past me.
I wanted happiness badly enough to interpret discomfort as resistance.
Sofia saw danger.
I saw adjustment.
I apologized for that many times.
She eventually told me.
“Dad, stop apologizing.”
I asked.
“Why?”
“Because now you’re making me comfort you.”
Fair.
I stopped.
