"You did it," I say quietly. "You actually fucking did it."
"We did it. You supported this. Believed in it when everyone else thought I was crazy."
"You are crazy. But the good kind." I pull her close. "Your clinic. Legal and everything. No more operating in the shadows. No more running from cops. Just... legitimate healthcare."
"I'm not ready to go back yet," she says against my chest. "Santiago needs me."
"He needs you. But you also need you. Your work, your purpose, your identity beyond being Mom." I pull back to look at her. "When you're ready, it's there. And I'll support you. Even though it terrifies me."
"Why does it terrify you?"
"Because you'll be out there. Treating people in dangerous situations. Going into territories where anything could happen. And I can't protect you from that."
"I don't need you to protect me from my calling."
"I know. Doesn't stop me from wanting to." I kiss her forehead. "But I'll support you anyway. Because that's what love is—being terrified and supporting them anyway."
She kisses me then, deep and grateful and full of everything we can't quite say yet.
Santiago starts crying through the baby monitor. Izzy's back, perfect timing as always.
"Sounds like someone missed his parents," Izzy calls from the living room.
We break apart, heading to reclaim our son. The four hours of Izzy-granted freedom is over. Back to the beautiful chaos of parenthood.
But for a moment there—standing in our kitchen, Lena's clinic finally real, Tommy's words about legacy echoing in my head—I felt it.
Hope.
Actual, tangible hope for the future.
Not just survival.
Something more.
Something worth building toward.
Sunday dinner at Abuela María's house has become routine.
Every week, without fail, we show up at six o'clock with Santiago and whatever food Abuela has demanded we bring. This week it's tres leches cake from the bakery she likes, because apparently my cooking skills don't extend beyond bottles and boxed mac and cheese.
Miguel's truck is already in the driveway. Danny's bike parked next to it. The smell of pozole hits before we even get to the door.
"I'm going to gain so much weight at these dinners," Lena mutters, adjusting Santiago in his carrier.
"Abuela will be personally offended if you don't gain weight. That's how this works."
"Your metabolism can handle it. Mine is still recovering from pregnancy."
"Your metabolism created a human. It gets a pass."
She elbows me but she's smiling.
Miguel opens the door before we can knock. He's gotten better about this over the last three months—less tense, more present. Still watches me carefully, but there's something like acceptance in it now. Maybe even something like respect.
"You're late," he says.
"We're two minutes late because someone needed a diaper change," Lena responds, already moving past him into the house.
