“Did we do something wrong?”
I pulled him into my arms.
“Oh, Gabriel. No.”
He hugged me tightly.
“You and Sofia did nothing wrong. I love you both very much.”
He sniffled.
“Will we still see you?”
“Of course. Your mother and I will have to arrange visits, but I want you in my life.”
He nodded.
Then he held out the dinosaur.
“You can take Rex.”
I stared at it.
He had slept with that toy since he was four.
“No, sweetheart. You keep Rex.”
“So you won’t be lonely.”
My eyes filled.
I kissed his forehead.
“How about I take a picture of Rex, and you keep him safe until you visit me?”
He thought about it.
Then nodded.
We took a photograph together.
Gabriel, Rex, and me.
I kept it on my phone.
I still have it.
Sofia came to me later carrying a drawing.
It showed a little house beside the ocean.
A gray-haired woman stood on the porch.
Two children waved from the beach.
Across the top she had written, in a child’s careful handwriting:
Lola’s new home.
I hugged her.
“Would you like to visit someday?”
Her face brightened.
“Can we collect seashells?”
“Absolutely.”
For a moment, I felt hopeful.
The children understood something their mother had forgotten.
Love did not require us to live under the same roof.
Lily found a rented townhouse closer to the children’s school.
She accepted the job she had previously declined.
The transition cost money.
Deposits.
Moving expenses.
New routines.
I helped with a limited amount of practical support because I chose to, and I documented it clearly.
I did not give Lily access to my accounts.
I did not promise to pay her rent indefinitely.
And I did not cancel the sale.
On the final day, Lily stood in the mostly empty living room.
Most of the furniture had been sold or donated.
The family photographs were gone from the walls.
Sunlight stretched across the polished floor.
“I can’t believe you’re really doing this,” she said.
I held a small box containing Arturo’s watch and our wedding photograph.
“Neither can I sometimes.”
She looked at me.
“Are you happy?”
I thought about the bungalow.
The sea.
The little garden.
The mornings waiting for me.
“Not yet,” I said. “But I think I will be.”
Lily looked toward the staircase.
“I grew up here.”
“I know.”
“I thought it would always be here.”
“So did I.”
For a few seconds, I thought she might apologize.
Instead she asked, “How much money are you getting from the sale?”
I closed my eyes briefly.
Then opened them.
“Enough to take care of myself.”
“That’s all you’re going to tell me?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head and walked outside.
I stood alone in the living room.
For a moment, the old instinct rose inside me.
Go after her.
Explain yourself.
Make her feel better.
Offer something.
Then it passed.
I picked up the box.
And walked outside.
My first morning in Batangas, I woke before sunrise.
For a few seconds, I had no idea where I was.
The bedroom was smaller.
The curtains were unfamiliar.
There was no sound of someone upstairs.
No Lily complaining about my footsteps.
No television turned up too loudly.
Then I heard the sea.
Soft.
Distant.
Steady.