Chapter 8: The Park, the Rabbit, and the Truth
Sofía was sitting on the bench nearest the fountain.
She always chose that bench.
She had explained it to Roberto once, very seriously, the way she explained all the things she had worked out for herself: the fountain made a sound, and the sound told her exactly where she was.
She could hear the path from the gate to the bench.
She could hear the pigeons near the oak tree to the left.
She could hear, if she listened carefully, the difference between a weekday and a weekend in the way people walked.
She was holding the rabbit.
María sat beside her, close but not crowding.
She looked up when she heard Roberto's footsteps on the gravel.
He sat down on Sofía's other side.
Sofía turned her head immediately — locating him, the way she always did.
"Papá."
"I'm here." He put his arm around her.
"How's the fountain today?"
"Loud," she said.
"There's a lot of water."
"There was rain last night."
"I know.
I heard it." She leaned into him.
After a moment she said, "Is she gone?"
"Yes."
Sofía was quiet.
Then: "Is she coming back?"
"No."
Another silence.
A pigeon landed on the path in front of them.
Sofía turned her head toward the sound.
"She said you would choose her," Sofía said.
"She said that's what papás do.
They choose the new person and the old things go away."
Roberto looked at the fountain.
"She was wrong," he said.
"I know." Sofía pulled the rabbit tighter.
"I knew she was wrong.
But she said it a lot."
"How many times?"
Sofía thought about it with the particular seriousness she brought to questions she considered important.
"Twelve," she said.
"Maybe thirteen.
I stopped counting after twelve."
He held her tighter.
"Sofía." He waited until she turned her face toward him.
"I need to tell you something, and I need you to listen to the whole thing before you say anything.
Can you do that?"
She nodded.
"I should have been home more.
I should have seen what was happening in our house.
I didn't, and that is my fault — not yours, not María's.
Mine." He felt her start to speak and said, "Let me finish." She closed her mouth.
"What she said about your mother — none of it was true.
Not one word.
Your mother loved you more than anything in this world.
She loved you so much that she—" He stopped.
He started again.
"She made sure you were safe.
Even at the very end.
That is who your mother was."
Sofía's face was very still.
"I know," she said quietly.
"I remember her voice."
"Tell me."
"She sang to me in the car sometimes.
When she thought I was asleep." Sofía's hand found his.
"She sang the same song every time.
I don't know what it's called."
"Cielito lindo," Roberto said.
His voice was rough at the edges.
Sofía smiled — small and certain.
"That one."
María had her hand over her mouth.
She was looking at the fountain.
Roberto sat on the bench with his daughter's hand in his and the sound of the water in front of them and the oak tree to the left and the pigeons on the path, and for a moment he let himself feel the full weight of everything he had nearly lost — not just last night, but across two years of looking away.
Then Sofía said, "Papá."
"Yes."
"Can we get the chocolate mousse?
The one from the bakery?"
He looked at her.
"I could smell it last night," she said simply.
"When you came in.
Before everything happened.
I smelled it and I thought — he brought it for me."
He had forgotten about the box.
It had been on the floor of the living room all night.
"Yes," he said.
"We can get it."
"Now?"
"Now."
She stood up, still holding the rabbit in one arm, and held out her other hand.
May you like
He took it.
María stood and fell into step on Sofía's other side, and the three of them walked back along the gravel path toward the gate, with the fountain behind them growing quieter with every step.
