POV: Antonio
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Luna was five when she started asking questions.
Not the easy questions—why is the sky blue, where do babies come from. The hard questions. The ones I'd been dreading since she was born.
"Daddy," she said one night, after I'd tucked her in. "Did you used to hurt people?"
I froze. "What?"
"Uncle Carlo said something. About how you used to be different. Before Mama." She looked at me with those eyes, so like my own. "Did you hurt people?"
I sat on the edge of her bed, took a breath.
"Yes," I said. "I did."
She was quiet for a moment. "Why?"
"Because I thought I had to. Because I didn't know any other way."
"Did Mama make you stop?"
"Mama made me want to be someone different." I took her hand. "Sometimes people do bad things, Luna. But that doesn't mean they're bad forever. They can change. They can be better."
She considered this. "Did you change?"
"I'm trying. Every day."
She nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"That's all I wanted to know." She kissed my cheek. "Goodnight, Daddy."
I tucked her in, turned off the light, stood in the hallway with my heart pounding.
Sofia was there, leaning against the wall.
"She asked," I said.
"I know. I heard."
"I told her the truth."
"Good." She took my hand. "That's all she needs. The truth."
---
SOFIA
The questions didn't stop with Antonio.
Luna asked me about my past. About Derek. About why I'd left the city, why I'd built the bookstore, why I'd been so scared when I first met her father.
"I was running," I said. "From someone who hurt me. From a life I didn't want."
"But you stopped running?"
"I stopped running when I found something worth staying for."
She looked at me with those serious eyes, so like Antonio's, and nodded slowly.
"Was it worth it?"
I pulled her close, kissed her hair.
"Every day."
---
ANTONIO
Elena was different.
She was three now, still too young for the hard questions, but old enough to notice when things were different. When I woke from nightmares. When Sofia was quiet. When Uncle Carlo looked at us sometimes like he was still making up for something.
"Why is Uncle Carlo sad?" she asked one afternoon, watching him in the garden.
"He's not sad, baby. He's thinking."
"About what?"
"About things he did. Before he was the person he is now."
She considered this. "Did he hurt people?"
I hesitated. "Yes."
"Did he stop?"
"He stopped. He's trying to be better."
"Good." She climbed into my lap. "I don't want anyone to be sad."
I held her close. "Me neither."
---
SOFIA
Carlo brought her to dinner on a Sunday.
Her name was Maria. She was a teacher—elementary school, like I'd been—with kind eyes and a laugh that filled the room. She held Elena on her lap, asked Luna about her books, helped with the dishes afterward.
"She's nice," I said, watching Carlo watch her.
"She's everything."
I looked at my brother—the man who'd spent years destroying himself, who'd spent more years rebuilding—and saw something I'd never seen before.
Peace.
"You love her," I said.
"I think I do."
"Then don't screw it up."
He laughed. "I'm trying not to."
---
ANTONIO
That night, after everyone left, I found Sofia in the nursery.
She was standing in the doorway, looking at the empty cribs, the shelves of books, the mobile that no longer moved.
"Thinking?" I asked.
"Just... remembering." She leaned against me. "They're growing up so fast."
"They are."
"Luna's going to school next year. Elena's starting preschool. And then—"
"And then they'll be grown. And we'll be here. In this house. In this garden. Waiting for them to come home."
She looked up at me. "You think they'll come home?"
"I think they'll always come home." I kissed her. "Because we'll always be here."