The words landed wrong in my chest. Tomorrow. She was leaving tomorrow.
I’d known she would eventually. But hearing it stated so plainly made me realize how much I’d gotten used to her presence. How much Lily had come to depend on seeing her every day.
How much I’d started to depend on it too.
That’s good,” I said, even though it didn’t feel good at all. “I’m glad you found something.”
She finally looked at me, and something in her expression suggested she’d heard what I hadn’t said. “Thank you for letting me stay.”
“It wasn’t charity. You’ve been good for Lily. For this house.”
“Still. Thank you.” She set down the plates. “Would you like a drink? One last toast to your birthday before it’s officially over?”
She followed me to the bar where I kept whiskey I rarely touched. I poured us both glasses and led her to the window seats overlooking the city.
We sat in silence for a while, watching the lights of Manhattan spread out below us.
“I’m terrified,” I said finally. “That this is temporary. That I’ll wake up tomorrow and she’ll be silent again.”
Sarah turned to look at me. “She’s not going to stop speaking. But Hector, you have to understand something. Lily didn’t go silent just because of the trauma. She went silent because her entire world shut down. Children absorb that. They think it’s their fault somehow.”
The accusation stung my chest. “I was trying to protect her.”
“By removing everything that brought her joy?”
“Joana was driving Lily to dance class when it happened.” The words game out, harsh with memory, “The drunk driver hit them head-on. Joana died on impact. Lily survived because she was in the back seat.”
Sarah’s face went pale. “I didn’t know.”
“Every time Lily saw her ballet shoes, she’d cry. Silent tears that would just stream down her face. So I got rid of them. I removed everything that made her cry, told myself I was protecting her.”
“But she wasn’t crying because ballet made her sad,” Sarah said quietly. “She was crying because she missed it. Because it was one of the last connections she had to her mother.”
“I can’t drive her to dance class.” The admission felt like failure. “I can’t put her in a car and drive her to the place where her mother died. Every time I think about it, I see Joana’s car crushed like paper. I can’t do it, Sarah.”
Her hand found mine where it rested on the windowsill. Her fingers were warm as they laced through mine.
“Then we’ll take it one day at a time,” she said. “I also want you to know accidents happen everywhere. You can’t stop living because you’re afraid.”
“Fear isn’t logical.”
“No. It’s not.” She squeezed my hand. “But you’re stronger than you think. Tonight proved that. You showed up, you smiled for your daughter, you let yourself have a moment of happiness. That’s huge.”
I looked at her, the way the city lights reflected in her eyes, at the gentle curve of her mouth.
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, and I thought she might pull her hand away. She didn’t.
“Can I ask you something?” Her voice was quiet.
“Yes.”
“That night when you found me with those men. You saved me, you called the police, you offered me a place to stay.” Her eyes held mine. “But you never asked who they were. What they wanted. You never asked any questions.”
“Someone once told me communication isn’t forced. People open up when they’re ready, not when you demand it.”
Her lips curved into a smile. “That does sound familiar.”
“So I’m asking now, if you want to tell me. Who were they, Sarah?“
