One morning, I planted a small citrus tree in the garden where Mr. Alvarez once cried alone. Mateo patted the dirt proudly.
I realized the house was never the point.
The point was that a man once treated like an inconvenience died feeling loved. The point was that my son would grow up knowing his father protected him, even from beyond the grave.
I am not the opportunist they tried to paint me as.
I am the woman who stayed.
That night, I set up the domino table. I placed two cups of coffee out of habit.
“Mr. Alvarez,” I said softly to the empty chair, “your coffee’s ready.”
The silence didn’t hurt anymore.
It felt like space.
And in that space, my son slept safely in the home his father chose to leave him.
