Ramon looked at Maria. “I thought about this day,” Maria said quietly. “Not every day. Not after a while. But sometimes.”
Ramon’s mouth trembled. “I’m sorry.”
The words floated between you. Small words. Late words. Words that should have arrived thirty years earlier with formula in his hands and shame on his knees.
Ruth finally spoke. “Why are you here?”
Ramon looked at her. She did not blink.
“I’m old,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m sick. I’m alone. I thought… maybe I could make it right. Maybe I could know my children before I die.”
The silence that followed was heavy.
Maria stood slowly. Thirty years of hard work had made her smaller in frame but taller in presence. She walked to the edge of the porch and looked down at the man who had once broken her.
“You don’t get to claim them now, Ramon. You left five newborns and a broken woman with nothing but your absence. They built everything they have with their own hands and my love. They don’t owe you peace.”
