Two years after the hacienda, Camila joined a school play.
She was not the lead.
She was a tree.
A very serious tree with paper leaves taped to her arms.
You and Javier sat in the front row like she was starring on Broadway. Your father came too, after asking permission. Your mother came separately and sat near the back, because trust still had assigned seating.
During the play, Camila had one line.
“Spring comes again.”
She said it loudly, proudly, perfectly.
You cried like a fool.
Javier cried too.
Your father pretended to cough.
Your mother covered her mouth.
Afterward, Camila ran toward you in her tree costume. “Did I do it right?”
You knelt and hugged her.
“Beautifully.”
She grinned. “I wasn’t scared.”
“I know.”
Then she looked toward your mother.
Your mother stood far back, holding a small bouquet of daisies. Not roses. Not expensive. Daisies.
Camila looked at you.
“Can Grandma say hi?”
You took a breath.
“If you want.”
Camila walked over.
Your mother crouched slowly, as if approaching a bird.
She did not grab her. Did not cry loudly. Did not demand forgiveness.
