Life didn’t become easier. There were setbacks. Visits from relatives who called it a miracle. Daniel grew to dislike that word. Nothing about this had been magic. It had been sweat, tears, and restraint.
Marisol eventually sat at the dining table one afternoon, her hands flat against the wood.
“I’ve been offered another position,” she said. “In Seattle.”
Daniel felt the familiar tightening in his chest—but this time he recognized it.
“Is it what you want?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “And that scares me.”
“Then decide for yourself,” he said gently. “Not for us.”
She looked surprised. “You’ve changed.”
“I had to.”
When she finally chose to leave, there were no grand speeches. Just a long embrace between her and Gabriel.
“You’ll keep walking,” she told him.
“I already do,” he replied solemnly.
After she left, there were difficult days. Two mornings when Gabriel refused to get up. Daniel didn’t panic. He sat beside him.
“Not today,” Gabriel murmured once.
“That’s okay,” Daniel answered.
On the fourth day, the boy stood up on his own.
Months later, Gabriel started school. Slowly. Unevenly. But upright. Daniel learned to witness without interfering, to support without suffocating.