“I need to go,” Marina whispers, and the words come out like surrender wrapped in dignity.
You try to stand and follow, but you’re still unstable, still learning your body’s rules.
She turns with tears on her face, not begging, not accusing, just asking the question that terrifies you.
“When you go back to your events and your world,” she says, “will you be ashamed of me?”
You swear you won’t, you swear you never could, but the fact that she had to ask is already a wound.
She kisses Sofía’s forehead, tells her she loves her, and you watch your daughter’s face crumble.
Marina looks at you one last time and says, “Thank you for letting me be part of your recovery.”
Then she leaves, and for the first time in months, you’re standing—yet you feel more broken than when you couldn’t.