“Even if…”
“Even then.”
He considers. Then holds out his pinky. I blink.
“A pinky promise,” he explains patiently, like I’m slow.
I hook mine around his. “Promise,” I repeat.
He smiles, just a little, then slides off the bench and runs toward the path where the stepping stones are set unevenly on purpose. Like someone wanted children to have to think about their footing.
Lucia stands at the doorway. She must have heard everything. Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t cry. She just looks at me like something inside her finally loosened its grip.
“You’re not your father,” she says.
I exhale. “I’m trying not to be.”
She steps closer. Rests her hand on my arm. Kisses me once, soft and steady.
“You’re succeeding.”
She goes to Nico. I stay on the bench. I touch my ear. Not in shame. Not to hide it. Just to feel it.
The habit is still there. The reflex. But it doesn’t carry fear with it now. It’s just a signal. A human thing.
My father used fear to rule. I will use safety. And for the first time in my life, I believe that might be enough.
The cycle doesn’t end with Nico.
It ends with me.
