“I would never make it weird.”
“You’re already making it weird. You’re smiling.”
I was.
A few weeks later, I had the old concrete lavadero torn out of the back patio. In its place, Sofia and Doña Carmen planted a lemon tree, the kind Ana had always wanted. Sofia picked the spot herself.
Every night now, we eat dinner together at the same table. Sometimes it’s just the two of us. Sometimes Doña Carmen comes over, or Javier and his wife, or a couple of Sofia’s friends who are louder than any teenagers I’ve ever met.
Sofia sits in the same place every time. Right beside me.
Nobody serves her last. Nobody tells her to wait. Nobody tells her there isn’t enough.
It’s her seat. It always was. I just had to learn to look at who was really sitting in it.
What This Story Taught Me
