Inside, her sneakers left faint dust on polished stone. She looked up at the tall ceilings, the curved staircase, the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Do you live here alone?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She nodded, and somehow that answer made her sad.
I told her to sit while I hurried to the kitchen. I made a sandwich thick enough for two people, poured juice, grabbed fruit, protein bars—anything that looked like strength. My hands moved faster than they ever had signing a contract.
When I returned, she wasn’t in the chair.
She stood by the staircase, holding a silver frame.
My breath stopped.
It was a photograph I had never been able to put away. A picture of a woman laughing in a park years ago. Sunlight in her hair. Eyes full of belief.
Elena Rivera.
The woman I loved before she vanished from my life ten years ago without explanation.
The girl’s shoulders trembled as she clutched the frame.
“Sir…” she whispered, turning toward me with tears streaming down her face. “Why do you have a picture of my mom?”
The room tilted.
“What did you say?”
“That’s my mom,” she cried. “Her hair was longer then. But that’s her. That’s my mama. Elena.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Your mom’s name is Elena Rivera?”