My name is Gabriel Torres. I was forty-six years old, and until that night, I believed I had built a decent life for my family in León, Guanajuato.
My first wife, Elena, had been the heart of our home. She gave me a daughter, Sofia, and taught me that being a father meant more than putting food on the table. It meant making your child feel safe enough to tell you the truth, even when that truth was uncomfortable.
Then cancer took Elena.
Sofia was only nine when we buried her mother.
For the next several years, it was just the two of us. I worked long routes, sometimes spending entire weeks away from home, but I called every night. I learned to cook a handful of meals, attended school meetings whenever my schedule allowed, and tried to fill the empty space Elena had left behind.
When I married Patricia three years later, I honestly believed we were beginning a new chapter.
