Chapter 6
He hesitated.
Then said, “Promise.”
The next morning, we walked there together.
The orchard had been neglected for years.
Most of the old trees remained, though several had stopped producing fruit.
Elena found the tree from the photograph.
“This one.”
Vincent stared at it.
“You're sure?”
“There used to be a swing.”
He looked upward.
A rusted hook remained embedded in a thick branch.
Vincent laughed softly.
“I forgot.”
“I didn't.”
Mia ran circles around the trunk.
“We need a new swing.”
Vincent looked at her.
“We do?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
I shrugged.
“Apparently.”
Two weeks later, a swing appeared.
Then Vincent hired an arborist.
Then Elena suggested restoring the path.
Mrs.
Alvarez requested benches.
Renzo proposed lights.
“What began as one swing has become a municipal infrastructure project,” Vincent complained.
Nobody listened.
By autumn, the orchard had become the warmest place on the property.
Employees ate lunch there.
Mrs.
Alvarez's grandchildren visited.
Mia learned to ride a bicycle along the gravel path.
Elena began painting again.
And Vincent put a wooden table beneath the apple tree.
On the first anniversary of the day Mia wandered into his study, we had dinner there.
Nothing elaborate.
Pasta.
Salad.
Bread.
Mia insisted on cupcakes.
As the sun lowered behind the trees, Elena raised her glass.
“I think we should toast Mia.”
Vincent groaned.
“This will encourage her.”
“She reunited a family.”
“She trespassed.”
“She was three.”
“She mocked me.”
“Accurately,” Renzo added.
Vincent gave him the face.
Everyone laughed.
Including Vincent.
Mia climbed into his lap.
“You did it.”
“Did what?”
“The mad face.”
“I was not making the mad face.”
“You were.”
He looked at me for support.
I shook my head.
“Don't involve me.”
Mia put her tiny hands against Vincent's cheeks.
“Smile.”
He did.
Easily this time.
No hesitation.
No rust.
Just Vincent.
I looked around the table.
At Elena.
At Tessa, who had joined us after her hospital shift.
At Mrs.
Alvarez.
At Renzo.
At my daughter.
I thought about Rose.
I wished she could see us.
Maybe she had imagined something like this when she wrote that letter.
Not a perfect family.
Not a family without mistakes.
Something better.
A family willing to tell the truth.
May you like
A family willing to return.
A family willing to make room for people without demanding that they erase everything that came before.
