Over time, Sofia began to talk. She shared fragments: a beach, a yellow dress, a doll she had lost. Teresa said she would adopt her. She never took her to the police; she was afraid they would take her away.
“It wasn’t the right decision,” Daniel said, his eyes filled with guilt. “But… I loved her. I truly loved her.”
Sofia grew up in that family. She went to school, laughed, and sang. But every night, before going to sleep, she asked them to read the same prayer to Our Lady of Guadalupe to her. She said her mother prayed it too.
Elena broke down. She no longer tried to hold back. She wept for her deceased husband, for the lost years, for the child who grew up far from her.
“Is she alive?” she asked between sobs.
Daniel nodded.
—She’s alive. And she’s strong. Very strong.
She had last seen her two months earlier. Sofia, now an eighteen-year-old, worked as an assistant at a community clinic. Teresa had died the previous year and, before dying, confessed everything. She told Sofia that she wasn’t her biological daughter, that she had found her on the beach in Puerto Vallarta, and that she had been afraid.
“Sofia was very angry,” Daniel said. “But she also forgave her.”
When Elena heard that, she knew that her daughter was still the same big-hearted girl.
That same afternoon they went to the clinic together.
The journey seemed endless. Elena clutched a rosary between her fingers. She feared it was all a cruel dream. She feared Sofia wouldn’t recognize her. She feared Sofia wouldn’t want to see her.
As they entered, a young woman with dark, braided hair looked up from the counter. Her eyes lit up when she saw Daniel.
“What are you doing here?” he asked with a smile.
Then he looked at Elena.
Time stood still.
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