She cried.
And two months later, we boarded the plane together.
We walked through the Colosseum at sunrise.
We ate pasta in a tiny restaurant in Trastevere.
We stood in front of the Trevi Fountain and threw coins over our shoulders.
“What did you wish for?” Blanca asked.
I smiled.
“I wished that I would never forget how strong I am.”
She linked her arm through mine.
“You are the strongest woman I know.”
On the last night in Barcelona, we sat on the balcony of our hotel and watched the city lights.
“Carmen,” Blanca said quietly, “can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“When Lucía called me from the airport that day, she told me you were jealous. That you were punishing her because Javier loved her more than you.”
I looked at her.
“I didn’t believe her,” Blanca continued. “Not for a second. Because I know what jealousy looks like. And what I saw in you wasn’t jealousy. It was grief.”
My throat tightened.
“Grief?”
“You weren’t angry that she took your place. You were heartbroken that your son let her.”
I looked down at my hands.
She was right.
“I thought I raised him better than that,” I whispered.
“You did. He just forgot for a while.”
“What if he forgets again?”
“Then you’ll remind him. The way you did at the airport.”
I smiled through tears.
“I didn’t do that for him. I did it for me.”
“I know. That’s why it worked.”
We sat in silence, watching the lights flicker across the city.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt whole.
