That night, Sofia slept in my room while I stayed awake in a chair beside the bed.
Every time she moved, I looked up.
Every time she murmured something in her sleep, I felt another wave of guilt.
I had been working to provide for her while failing to see what was happening right under my roof.
At five in the morning, I went into the kitchen.
I made oatmeal pancakes, the way Elena used to make them on Sunday mornings. I added cinnamon because Sofia had always loved it, and I placed a glass of milk beside the plate.
When she finally appeared, she stopped at the kitchen entrance.
For a moment, I saw the little girl she had been before her mother’s death.
Then she glanced toward the empty chair where Patricia usually sat and immediately lowered her eyes.
“Come here,” I said gently.
She approached the table.
