"That's the work," David says, pointing the beer bottle at me.
"That feeling right there? That need to fix, to control, to manage? That's what you have to kill. Letting go is harder than fighting, Dorian. It takes more strength to sit in this kitchen and eat pasta than it does to beat a man half to death."
I stare at him. He's right. And I hate it.
"I'm trying," I grate out. "I'm staying away. I'm letting the police handle Leah. What else do you want from me?"
"Patience," Flor says softly. "Just patience. She's building a bridge back to you, Dorian. Don't burn it down by running across it too fast."
* * *
Della
The Grand Canyon: Forgiveness
If Arches was about resilience, Monument Valley was about perspective—not just emotional, but spiritual. Walking through the Navajo Tribal Park felt like stepping onto hallowed ground.
Today—day ten since we left San Diego—we are driving to Grand Canyon.
I love being at the wheel, watching the road and landscapes unspool in front of me, while Silvia loves being the copilot, playing DJ and keeping me entertained with funny stories. We are the perfect rhythm for the road.
“Oh, this one is good, Chiquita! This is for us,” Silvia says, cranking the volume knob.
The opening guitar riff of Shania Twain’s“Man! I Feel Like a Woman!”blasts through the speakers.
Next thing I know, the windows are down, the desert wind is whipping our hair into a frenzy, and we are singing at the top of our lungs, off-key and reckless.
“The best thing about being a woman
Is the prerogative to have a little fun and
Oh, oh, oh, go totally crazy!”
For three minutes, there is no trauma. No past. Just the wind, the music, and us.
We arrive at the South Rim just as the sun is beginning to dip, casting long, orange shadows across the vast expanse. The sheer scale of it makes my brain stutter.
It swallows sound, ego...pain. Everything feels insignificant against this kind of time.
We find a quiet spot away from the main lookout points, sitting on a flat rock near the edge.
"It makes you feel small, doesn't it?" Silvia says, her legs dangling over the abyss.
"Tiny," I agree. "Like a speck of dust."
"Good," she nods. "Specks of dust don't have to carry the weight of the world."
We sit in silence for a long time, watching the colors shift from orange to violent violet.
"I feel guilty," I whisper. The words are out before I can stop them. "About everything. About the baby. About my life after… About coming back and leaving him again."
Silvia turns to me, her expression fierce. "Stop. Right there."
"But Sil…"
"No," she says firmly, grabbing my hand and squeezing hard. "I think everything is meant to be. Life has its own way of taking us where we need to be, even if the road is messy. You didn't leave because you were weak, Della. You left to stay alive."
Her voice softens. "And the baby... That wasn't your fault. That was a crime, not a mistake. You have to forgive the girl you were after the abuse. She was doing her best to survive."
