POV: Sofia
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The years passed like water through my fingers.
Luna was eight. Elena was six. They were reading now, really reading—chapter books, series, the kind of books I'd loved when I was their age. They stayed up late with flashlights, whispered about stories, argued about which characters were the best.
"You're raising readers," Antonio said, watching them one night.
"I'm raising thinkers. The reading is just a bonus."
He pulled me close. "You're raising them to be strong. That's what matters."
---
ANTONIO
Luna got in her first fight at school.
She was nine. A boy had said something about me—about the family, about the past, about things I'd thought were buried. Luna punched him in the face.
I got the call at work. Sofia was there when I got home.
"She's in her room," Sofia said.
"I'll talk to her."
I climbed the stairs, knocked on her door.
"Come in."
She was sitting on her bed, arms crossed, face defiant. So like me at that age. So like the person I'd been before Sofia made me human.
"He said things about you," she said before I could speak. "Bad things. About what you used to do. About the people you hurt."
"What did you say?"
"I said he was wrong."
"Luna—"
"He was wrong." She looked at me, and her eyes were fierce. "You're not that person anymore. You changed. You're my father. And I won't let anyone say you're not good."
I sat beside her, took her hand.
"You can't hit people when they say things you don't like."
"Even when they're wrong?"
"Even when they're wrong." I pulled her close. "I love you, Luna. But you have to find other ways to stand up for what's right."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "What other ways?"
"We'll figure it out. Together."
She leaned against me, and I held her, and I thought about the person I'd been—the person who'd have been proud of her for throwing that punch—and the person I was now.
"You're a good father," Luna said.
"You're a good daughter."
She kissed my cheek. "I love you, Daddy."
"I love you too."
---
SOFIA
Elena was different.
She was seven now, quiet where Luna was loud, careful where Luna was bold. She didn't get in fights. She didn't raise her voice. She watched, she listened, she learned.
"You're going to be a diplomat," I told her one night, tucking her in.
"What's a diplomat?"
"Someone who helps people solve problems without fighting."
She considered this. "Like you and Daddy?"
"Exactly."
She smiled. "Good. I want to be like you."
I kissed her forehead. "You already are."
---
ANTONIO
Carlo's daughter was born in the spring.
Isabella. Tiny, dark-haired, with her mother's smile and her father's stubborn chin. Luna held her like she was precious. Elena sang to her. Carlo cried.
"She's perfect," Sofia said.
"She is."
"She's going to be spoiled."
I laughed. "Absolutely."
Carlo came to stand beside us, watching his daughter sleep.
"Never thought I'd have this," he said quietly. "Any of this."
"Neither did I."
He looked at me. "We're lucky."
"We are."
He held out his hand. I took it.
Two men who'd been enemies, who'd become family, standing in a garden full of flowers, watching their children play.
It was more than I'd ever hoped for. More than I'd ever deserved.
It was everything.