But Sofia had both of us in the same room again.
Not as husband and wife.
As her parents.
Before we left, she walked to the front door of the condo and rested her hand on the lock.
The property Carmen had tried to turn into a symbol of obedience had become something else entirely.
It was never merely expensive real estate.
It was the place Sofia had been told belonged to her.
The place she had been assaulted for refusing to surrender.
And the place she returned to after learning that love requiring fear, silence, and ownership was not love at all.
She turned the key behind us.
Alexander glanced at her.
“You good?”
Sofia looked at the door, then at the fading photograph of her wedding still tucked inside her phone case.
She removed the photograph, folded it once, and put it in her pocket.
“I will be,” she said.
Then she walked between us toward the elevator, carrying nothing from the wedding except the truth of what had happened and the certainty that no one would ever again decide what belonged to her.
