Chapter 18
Years taught Leo the truth in layers.
At seven, he knew Helena hurt him and went to prison.
At eight, he knew Sofia had fought to protect his future.
At nine, he asked why Dante said he did not count.
I sat with him in the garden.
The question came while he was eating strawberries.
Children choose strange moments to open deep doors.
“Some people think blood is the only thing that makes family,” I said.
Leo frowned.
“That’s dumb.”
“Yes.”
“Blood is inside. Family is outside too.”
I smiled.
“You are wiser than many adults.”
He shrugged.
“I’m nine.”
Hard to argue.
At ten, he asked if I was his real father.
I had prepared for that question for years.
Still, it hurt.
“Yes,” I said.
He studied me.
“But not blood?”
“Not blood.”
“Did you know?”
“Not when you were born.”
“Were you mad?”
“At the people who used it to hurt you. Never at you.”
He leaned against the bench.
“Did Mama lie?”
I took a breath.
“She kept a secret because she was scared dangerous people would use the truth. I wish she had told me. But she loved you. That part was never a lie.”
Leo nodded slowly.
“Can I be mad and love her?”
“Yes.”
“Can I be mad and love you?”
“Yes.”
He thought about that.
“Good. Because sometimes I am mad you didn’t see Helena sooner.”
The sentence pierced clean through me.
I deserved it.
“I’m mad about that too.”
He looked surprised.
“I should have protected you faster,” I said.
He put one strawberry in my hand.
“You came back.”
“Late.”
“But back.”
I closed my fingers around the fruit like it was holy.
That night, I wrote a letter to Sofia.
Not because she could read it.
Because I needed somewhere to put the truth.
I told her Leo was brave.
Funny.
Stubborn.
I told her he had her eyes when he was judging people.
I told her I was sorry.
Then I placed the letter in the chapel safe beside hers.
Not hidden.
May you like
Stored.
There is a difference.
