CHAPTER 13 – LEARNING TO BE A FATHER AGAIN
Healing didn't happen dramatically.
There was no morning when Isabella woke up and everything was suddenly fine.
It happened in tiny moments.
The first time she opened the refrigerator without asking permission.
The first time she complained about homework.
The first time she left dirty socks on the floor.
I nearly celebrated.
“Isabella!”
“What?”
“Your socks.”
She looked guilty.
Then I smiled.
“You're supposed to be a kid.”
She stared at me.
“So I'm not in trouble?”
“You're in extremely serious sock trouble.”
She laughed.
That laugh became my favorite sound.
Therapy helped.
School helped.
Routine helped.
And I changed too.
I hired a new CEO for day-to-day operations.
For the first time in twenty years, I stopped measuring my life by deals.
I learned school pickup times.
I learned which cereal Isabella hated.
I learned she pretended not to like hugs when her friends were watching.
I learned she loved astronomy.
So we bought a telescope.
Not an expensive one.
She specifically chose a simple model.
“You don't have to buy the biggest one.”
I smiled.
“Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?”
She rolled her eyes.
One evening we watched Jupiter from the terrace.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going back to Dubai?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“For short trips, maybe.”
Her face changed.
“But not for months.”
She relaxed.
“And you'll tell me?”
“Every time.”
“No surprises?”
I thought about the surprise return that had exposed everything.
“No bad surprises.”
She smiled.
Then she looked through the telescope again.
Months later, a letter arrived from prison.
Beatriz.
I almost threw it away.
Instead, I gave it to Elena.
She read it.
“Do you want to know?”
“Is it an apology?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
We destroyed it.
Some doors don't need reopening.
On the anniversary of Sofia's death, Isabella and I visited her grave.
She placed flowers beside the stone.
“Mom?”
The word came softly.
“I think Daddy finally learned how to stay home.”
I laughed through tears.
“Your mother would enjoy that.”
“She'd yell at you.”
“Probably.”
“For working too much.”
“Definitely.”
Isabella took my hand.
“Do you miss her?”
“Every day.”
“Me too.”
“You barely remember her.”
“I remember how she smelled.”
That surprised me.
“Like what?”
“Vanilla.”
I smiled.
Sofia had always worn vanilla perfume.
“That's right.”
We stood there together.
Not broken.
Not completely healed.
Just together.
Sometimes that is enough.
Then Isabella pulled something from her pocket.
A folded piece of paper.
“What's that?”
“A list.”
“Of what?”
“Things we should do.”
I opened it.
Go camping.
Learn to cook pancakes.
Visit New York.
Get a dog.
See snow.
Have movie night every Friday.
I smiled.
“A dog?”
“That one's important.”
“I see.”
“Very important.”
“What kind?”
“Big.”
“How big?”
“Big enough that bad people are scared.”
The smile disappeared from my face.
She noticed.
Then she squeezed my hand.
“But mostly because I want a dog.”
I kissed her forehead.
“Then we'll get a dog.”
Three weeks later, a ridiculous golden retriever puppy named Bruno destroyed two cushions worth €4,000.
Isabella looked horrified.
I stared at the wreckage.
Then at Bruno.
May you like
Then at her.
And we both started laughing.
