Part of me was relieved he cared.
Motherhood made room for complicated truths.
He did not hold them first.
I did.
That was not punishment.
That was order.
My body had carried them through fear, shame, nausea, court dates, and lonely nights.
My arms were the first home they needed.
Diego held them later, one at a time, sitting down, supervised by a nurse because they were tiny and hewas trembling.
When Isabel opened one eye, Diego whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I looked away.
Not because I wanted to interrupt.
Because some apologies belong to the future, not the past.
Dolores met the twins three weeks later.
After written boundaries.
After Diego made it clear that one insult would end the visit immediately.
She arrived with gifts and red eyes.
At first, she tried to kiss me.
I stepped back.
“No.”
She froze.
Then nodded stiffly.
She looked at the babies and began crying.
