On the morning of Marina’s first day back, you don’t send flowers.
You don’t send a driver.
You go yourself—slow, steady, still learning your balance—because you want her to see you choosing her with your body, not just your words.
She opens the door and freezes for half a second, like she’s bracing for disappointment.
Then Sofía darts past you and tackles Marina’s legs in a hug so fierce it nearly knocks all three of you over.
Marina laughs and cries at the same time, and you realize laughter can sound like forgiveness before forgiveness even arrives.
You don’t fix everything overnight.
Some days Marina still flinches when someone calls her “the nanny,” even if they say it like a compliment.
Some nights you wake up sweating, hearing your own voice—Don’t touch me—and hating the man you were on that marble floor.
But Marina doesn’t punish you with silence.
She makes you work for trust the way she made you work for your steps: slowly, consistently, without shortcuts.
And you accept it, because this is the first thing in your life that feels more valuable than control.