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Her fingers tightened around mine.

Rafael had finally been able to tell her the truth and hear her call him Papá. That mattered. But there had been twenty-five years before that, and I wanted her to have those memories tonight too.

“Tell me something good about him,” I said.

Isabella blinked. “What?”

“A happy memory of Rafael. Something that belongs only to the two of you.”

“Why?”

“Because his last few minutes gave you the truth, but they weren’t all he was to you.”

For a while, she said nothing.

Then she leaned back against the wall and drew her knees closer.

“After Mother died, I stopped eating.”

I waited.

“Father called it manipulation. He ordered the servants to ignore it and said hunger would eventually cure me of wanting attention.” Her thumb moved slowly against the side of my hand. “Rafael came through the wardrobe after everyone went to sleep.”

“What did he do?”

“The first night, he brought fruit and bread. I refused to touch it, so he sat on the floor and ate everything himself.”

For a moment, she seemed somewhere else, back in that bedroom with him.

“The next night, he came back with two pupusas he had made.”

“Please tell me he was a better cook than I’m imagining.”

“He was terrible.” Her mouth curved faintly. “They were burned around the edges and still nearly raw in the middle. He took one bite and told me they were excellent.”

“And you believed him?”

“I told him he was an appalling liar.”

A quiet laugh escaped me.

“He smiled and said, ‘Good. At least you’re speaking to me again.’ Then he gave me the one that was slightly less burned.”

“Did you eat it?”

“I ate half only because he sat there looking hopeful while pretending not to watch me.” Her voice began to break. “He came back every night after that. Sometimes with food from the kitchen. Sometimes with another horrible thing he had tried to cook himself. He never ordered me to eat or told me to stop grieving. He simply sat beside me until I was ready.”

“He was making sure you didn’t have to be alone while you figured out how to start again. He was being your father long before you knew what to call him.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

“I kept saying Papá after he told me. Again and again, as though I could fit twenty-five years into the few minutes we had left.”

“He heard you, Mouse. Every time you said it.”

“It wasn’t enough though.”

“Mouse, you didn’t make him your father when you said the word.” I tightened my hand around hers. “He’d been doing the job your entire life. You finally got to call him what he already was.”