When my fingers brushed Santiago’s during the service, I was quick to pull away. If he noticed, he didn’t comment. I looked at his hand then, and I looked at the casket again, and all I could think was what did he do to my father for it to be closed?

Eva went home with Marco and two soldiers after the service. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay, to hear the stories my father’s friends, many of them strangers to me, told about him. I had no idea he was so ingrained in IVI. Had no idea he had so many friends there and true friends at that. I see it in their eyes and hear it in the affectionate way they speak about him. I’m truly glad for that.

And now as I stand looking at my blotchy, tear-streaked face in the bathroom mirror, I think about that closed casket set with an enormous bouquet of lilies spilling over the lid, and for all of my father’s faults, I loved him. I will miss him.

The toilet flushes, and a woman I don’t know comes out of the little room to wash her hands.

“He was a good man, dear,” she says to me.

“Thank you,” I tell her but then am grateful when she’s gone. I feel so sad. So incredibly sad. And the fact that I am alone has never been more obvious to me.

It’s then I feel something. Something strange. I blink, looking down at my stomach. And there it is again. The lightest tapping. Like the tip of the tiniest finger just touching the back of my hand. It’s so faint I almost miss it, but then it comes again. I put my hand over my round belly, and I smile, feel my eyes fill up at this first real contact with my baby, and all I can think is I need to tell Santiago. I need to put his hand on the bump and let him feel this almost fluttering sensation as delicate as a butterfly’s wing.

But then it’s gone, and my smile with it because I won’t tell Santiago. Not now. I can't. He will miss this milestone, and it makes me want to cry all over again.

The door opens again then, and someone walks inside. I busy myself washing my hands. I should have slipped into one of the stalls.

The woman hesitates at the door, and I realize she’s one of the waitresses. I wonder if she doesn’t think she should be using this bathroom for guests.

“They’re open,” I say, pointing at the stalls.

“Um…are you Mrs. De La Rosa?”

I turn to look at her. I realize she’s young, maybe sixteen. I nod.

“Here.” She digs into her pocket and pulls out a wrinkled, unsealed envelope.