Afterward, he walks over and says, “You cried again.”
“Yes.”
“Hydrate.”
Elvira laughs so hard she has to sit.
Your relationship does not become perfect.
Perfect is for stories people tell when they skip the hard years.
There are arguments.
There are nights when Diego’s anger returns like weather. There are days when he says, “You didn’t protect me,” and you do not defend yourself. There are birthdays where he misses his mother so badly he refuses cake.
You learn to stay.
Not fix.
Not explain.
Stay.
On Diego’s sixteenth birthday, he asks for something unexpected.
“I want to visit her.”
You freeze.
“Valeria?”
He nods.
“No.”
He looks at you.
You breathe.
Old instinct.
Command.
Protect.
Control.
You try again.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. To see if she still looks scary.”
You discuss it with his therapist for weeks.
Eventually, under strict supervision, with legal approval and the therapist present, Diego visits Valeria in prison.
You are not in the room.
That is his choice.
You wait outside, sick with fear.
When he comes out, he looks older.
Not broken.
Just clear.
“What happened?” you ask.
“She cried,” he says.
You tense.
“She said she loved you.”
You close your eyes.
“She said I ruined her marriage.”
Your hands curl.
Diego shrugs.
“I told her ants ruined it.”
You stare at him.
Then he starts laughing.
Not because it is funny.
Because sometimes survival develops sharp teeth.
You laugh too, then cry, and he groans because you are embarrassing.
Later, he says the visit helped.
“She’s smaller now,” he tells his therapist. “Not in size. In my head.”
That is worth something.
