Mercedes presses the watch in her palm.
“Did it?”
You think carefully.
“No.”
Her face falls.
You continue.
“But it started.”
She looks up.
You smile a little.
“That’s more than nothing.”
She laughs through tears.
A few weeks later, you take Mateo to visit your mother’s grave at Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn. Mercedes and Elena come with you, not as guests, not as strangers, but not quite as family yet either.
Something in between.
Something forming.
You place white flowers on Lucia’s grave and sit on the grass with Mateo in your lap. He grabs at the petals, trying to eat one, because grief means nothing to babies and thank God for that.
Mercedes stands a few feet away, trembling.
“Can I speak to her?” she asks.
You nod.
She kneels with difficulty.
“Lucia,” she says, voice breaking, “I am sorry. I believed the wrong person. I let time become an excuse. Your son is good. Your grandson is beautiful. You raised him well.”
Elena starts crying.
You look away.
Not because you are embarrassed.
Because some apologies belong first to the dead.
On the way home, you stop at a diner in Brooklyn, the kind your mother used to love. You all squeeze into a booth too small for the stroller. Mateo bangs a spoon on the table while Mercedes orders pancakes and Elena complains that the coffee tastes like hot regret.
You laugh.
