The truth be told, I’ve loved all the versions of her for a very long time. I just never realized having her was possible for me. I never considered it.

I shake my head at my own stupidity, thank the gods that she was able to overcome even that, and brush my lips over her forehead. I tuck the blanket around her shoulder, and I know it’s not just exhaustion that has her sleeping so soundly. She’s relaxing. Slowly but surely. In time, she will trust that we are meant to have a life together. To be happy. I will, too.

Quietly, I leave the bedroom. I’m on my way downstairs when my phone vibrates with a call. I slip it out of my pocket, see it’s my brother, and answer. Even that says something. There was a time I’d ignore the call and send it directly to voicemail. Another thing to be grateful for is my cocky, arrogant brother, who almost died saving our lives. He will probably lord it over me for the rest of our days, but he will eventually walk out of that hospital. Not for a while yet and not without lasting scars both inside and out, but in time.

“Theron, good morning.”

“Morning.”

“Everything okay?” He doesn’t usually call at this time.

“Yeah, fine. Everything’s fine here.” But I hear something in his tone. I’m about to ask what it is, but he continues. “Listen, I know she doesn’t want me to tell you, but I think you should know.”

I stop, wait.

“Mom was here. She left about half an hour ago.”

“Our mother was there?” She has all but disappeared after her stunt of sending the bloody sheet to Santiago. Taunting him to get exactly the reaction she got.

“She didn’t want me to tell you, obviously, but I have a feeling if I don’t, she may be gone for good.”

“Maybe she should be,” I say, but I don’t mean it. I know everything we’ve done, all the hurt we’ve caused, has come out of a past that molded us. Each one of us.

“You don’t mean that, brother,” he says. He knows me better than I give him credit for. “She’s probably at the cottage by now. I doubt she’ll stay long, so I’d suggest you make haste,” he says. I hear two women’s voices then wishing him a good morning, and I remember the scene when Mercedes and I visited, two pretty nurses tending to his every need. “Ladies,” he says, his tone different when he’s talking to them. I have to smile. It’s good. It’s what I’d asked for. That he survive. That he heal. That he walk away from this still intact. Himself. “I’ll be right with you.”

“Your entourage has arrived, I take it?”