“She’ll understand only what she needs to understand.”
“I can help,” he said.
“You don’t have to be the grown-up.”
“I know.” He looked at me then, serious and sweet. “But I can still help.”
I squeezed his hand.
And for the first time that day, I let one tear fall.
Not because I was weak.
Because my son had learned tenderness in a house that had not always shown it to him, and somehow he had kept it.
When we landed in Miami, the air felt different immediately. Warm. Salted. Alive.
The children perked up as soon as we stepped outside. Lily pointed at palm trees. Noah asked whether we could see the ocean before dinner. For a few precious minutes, they sounded like children again.
The driver waiting for us was older than the one in New York, with silver hair and kind eyes. He introduced himself as Mateo and loaded our bags into a navy sedan.
