Chapter 14 - MY BROTHER'S LAST REQUEST
I didn't want to go.
For three days, I ignored the request.
Then Isabella surprised me.
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don't, you'll wonder what he wanted.”
She was right.
So I went.
Alejandro looked nothing like the man who had held a gun against me.
Cancer had reduced him to bones and bitterness.
He looked toward me.
“You came.”
“For answers.”
He laughed weakly.
“Still Daniel.”
“What do you want?”
“To say I was wrong.”
I stared.
“That doesn't fix anything.”
“I know.”
“You tried to kill my daughter.”
His eyes closed.
“I know.”
“You tried to kill me.”
“I know.”
“You helped a woman torture an eight-year-old.”
His eyes opened.
“I didn't tell Beatriz to do that.”
“Do you expect that distinction to matter?”
“No.”
For once, my brother had no clever answer.
He looked toward the window.
“I spent my whole life believing Father stole something from me.”
“He did favor me.”
“I know.”
“And that was wrong.”
Alejandro looked surprised.
“But Elena didn't belong to either of us.”
He swallowed.
“I know.”
“Isabella wasn't a weapon.”
“I know.”
“And you destroyed your life because you couldn't accept that other people could choose something you didn't want.”
Tears appeared in his eyes.
Maybe genuine.
Maybe not.
I didn't need to decide.
“Does Isabella hate me?”
I stood.
“You don't get to ask that.”
“Daniel.”
“She doesn't think about you.”
That hurt him.
I saw it.
And perhaps that was the most honest consequence.
Not hatred.
Irrelevance.
I walked toward the door.
“Wait.”
I stopped.
“I'm sorry.”
I looked back.
“I believe you.”
Hope appeared in his face.
Then I finished.
“But believing your apology doesn't erase what you did.”
I left.
Alejandro died six days later.
I didn't take Isabella to the funeral.
I attended alone.
Not because he deserved my presence.
Because I needed to bury something larger than my brother.
The competition.
The anger.
Our father's mistakes.
The secrets.
The version of myself that believed controlling everything meant protecting everyone.
I returned home before sunset.
Isabella was waiting at the gate.
She hugged me.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
I smiled.
“Getting there.”
She took my hand.
We walked toward the garden.
Near the roses, she stopped.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember the day you came home early?”
Every detail.
“Yeah.”
“I do too.”
I squeezed her hand.
She looked toward the spot where I'd found her.
“I used to wish you had come home sooner.”
Pain moved through me.
“I wish that every day.”
“But now I think…”
She paused.
“What?”
“You came when you came.”
I stared at her.
“And you stayed.”
I couldn't answer.
She hugged me again.
May you like
Sometimes children give forgiveness adults don't believe they deserve.
The important thing is not to waste it.
