She simply said, “You were a beautiful tree.”
Camila laughed. “Trees aren’t beautiful.”
Your mother smiled sadly.
“This one was.”
Then she handed her the daisies.
Camila accepted them.
That was all.
Sometimes healing is not a reunion.
Sometimes it is a child taking flowers from someone who once let hers be taken, and knowing she can walk away afterward.
That night, after Camila fell asleep, you sat beside her bed and looked at the old flower basket on her shelf. The gold ribbons had faded slightly. A few petals from the park parade were still tucked inside, dry and curled.
You thought about the hacienda.
The chapel.
Your mother’s cold face.
Your brother’s ugly words.
Your daughter asking if she had done it wrong.
Then you thought about the school play.
The silver shoes still in her closet.
The way she said her line without fear.
Spring comes again.
You finally understood something.
Your family had thought the worst thing they could do was take away Camila’s role.
But they had given you one.
Protector.
Witness.
