Chapter 43 The People I Came From

Chapter 43 The People I Came From

POV: Valeria Cruz

I know Rafe is trying not to make a big deal out of it.

That is exactly how I know this is a big deal.

He doesn’t ask me three times if I’m sure. He doesn’t hover. He doesn’t tell me I can cancel and go another day. He just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose near the console, quiet in a way that feels deliberate. Like he knows I need the silence more than I need reassurance.

It still doesn’t stop the nerves.

My leg bounces the entire ride.

By the third red light, I press my palm down on my knee and force it still.

Rafe notices anyway.

Of course he does.

“You don’t have to do all of it today,” he says, eyes still on the road.

I look out the window.

“I know.”

“You can leave whenever you want.”

“I know.”

He glances at me then. Brief. Just enough to make sure I’m not saying it because I think I’m supposed to.

“You don’t have to prove anything to them,” he says.

That one lands.

Not because I didn’t know it. Because I did. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew. But hearing him say it out loud peels something off my chest that I didn’t realize I was carrying.

I swallow.

“I’m not trying to.”

He nods once like that answer is enough.

Maybe it is.

The café is small. Quiet. Tucked into a corner between a bookstore and a florist like it’s trying not to be noticed. I chose it because it felt neutral. Public enough that I won’t feel trapped. Calm enough that this doesn’t turn into some dramatic reunion scene I’m not ready for.

Rafe parks but doesn’t turn the engine off right away.

“You want me to come in?” he asks.

The answer rises too fast.

“Yes.”

Then I wince, because that sounded more desperate than I wanted.

He doesn’t say anything about it. He just kills the engine, unbuckles, and gets out.

I breathe once before opening my own door.

They’re already there.

I know the second I walk in.

Not because I recognize them.

Because they recognize me.

People look at strangers all the time. Briefly. Casually. Politely. But this is not that. This is immediate. Full. The kind of look that lands and stays.

My mother stands first.

That word still feels borrowed in my head. Like I’m trying it on and haven’t decided yet if it fits.

She doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t run forward. Doesn’t cry out my name like she’s in a movie. She just stands there with both hands wrapped around a coffee cup she has clearly forgotten to drink, looking like she’s trying very hard not to spook something wounded.

My father rises slower.

He watches me the way Rafe watches me when I say I’m fine and we both know it’s not the full truth.

Careful.

Measured.

Patient.

Rafe stays half a step behind me, not hiding, not intruding. Just there. An anchor. A witness.

“Hi,” my mother says softly.

I hate how much that one word affects me.

Because she sounds nervous.

Because she sounds like this matters.

Because she sounds like someone who has been waiting a long time to say something ordinary.

“Hi,” I say back.

My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

My father nods once. “Thank you for coming.”

I almost laugh at the strange formality of it. Thank you for coming, as if I’m here for a business meeting and not because my life got ripped open and all the pieces have names now.

Still, I sit.

Rafe takes the chair beside mine without asking if that’s okay. I’m grateful enough for that to feel it in my throat.

The waitress comes by too fast, cheerful and smiling and oblivious, asking if we want menus. None of us do. We order coffee anyway because apparently everybody in emotionally unbearable situations thinks holding a cup will help.

It does not.

The first few minutes are terrible.

Not dramatic. Not explosive. Just awkward in the most honest way possible.

My mother asks if I’m healing well.

I say yes.

My father asks if my classes are wrapped up.

I say almost.

I ask how long they’ve lived in Miami.

They tell me they moved back two years ago after following up on a lead that ended up going nowhere.

That one hurts.

Because if I had turned left instead of right one random day, if a file had surfaced sooner, if a system had worked the way it should have, if a thousand tiny things had lined up differently, they could have found me earlier.

I can feel myself drifting toward that spiral.

Rafe’s knee touches mine under the table.

Just once.

Enough to stop it.

My mother notices the movement. Her eyes flick down, then back to my face, and for one awful second I think she’s going to look offended or protective or territorial about him.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she says quietly, “I’m glad you weren’t alone.”

The room goes still.

I stare at her.

Because that is not what I expected. Not even close.

I glance at Rafe. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. But I feel the way his posture changes beside me. Less guarded. Not relaxed exactly. Just... listening differently.

My throat tightens.

“I wasn’t,” I say.

And those two words somehow contain the last year of my life.

The abuse.

The fear.

The twins.

The Vegas.

The hospital.

The legal mess.

All of it.

My father folds his hands on the table. “We know this is a lot.”

That almost makes me smile because it is the understatement of the century.

“Yeah,” I say.

“We also know,” he continues, “that finding out the truth doesn’t automatically create a relationship.”

My mother looks at him once, then back at me.

“We’re not asking you to pretend,” she says.

That one gets me.

Because so many people have asked me to pretend in my life.

Pretend everything was normal. Pretend things didn’t hurt. Pretend I wasn’t scared. Pretend I wasn’t exhausted. Pretend I understood things I was never given enough truth to understand.

But this?

This is the opposite.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel,” I admit.

The words come out quieter than I planned, but once they’re there, I can’t take them back.

“I don’t know if I’m angry or sad or relieved or all of it at once. I don’t know if I’m supposed to want to know everything right now. I don’t know if I should feel guilty that I don’t.”

My mother’s eyes shine instantly.

“You don’t have to feel guilty for any of that.”

No hesitation.

No performance.

Just immediate, fierce certainty.

And that—

that does something to me.

Because she says it like she would fight anyone who told me otherwise. Because she sounds like she means it. Because the sound of a mother defending me, even this late, even like this, is so unfamiliar it almost feels unreal.

“I’m angry sometimes,” I say before I can stop myself.

No one moves.

No one flinches.

At me, I mean. I’m angry at me. At all of it. At how much was taken. At how long it took. At how normal my life felt when it shouldn’t have. At how impossible it is to get those years back.”

My father nods slowly. “You should be angry.”

That startles me.

Not because I disagree.

Because he doesn’t try to calm it down.

He doesn’t tell me anger is poison or that forgiveness is necessary or that closure matters more. He just lets it exist.

My mother reaches slowly into her purse.

I tense before I can stop myself.

She notices.

Her face falls, just slightly, and she stops halfway.

“It’s just a picture,” she says gently. “Only if you want to see it.”

I don’t answer right away.

The whole table feels suspended.

Then I nod.

She slides the photo across the table.

It’s old. Creased at one corner. A little faded.

There’s a girl in it. Maybe three years old. Dark curls. Round cheeks. Huge grin. Held between them on what looks like a beach. My father is younger, my mother brighter somehow, all three of us sunlit and impossible.

I stare at it so long the image blurs.

“That’s me,” I whisper.

My mother’s hand tightens around her coffee cup. “Yeah.”

I don’t cry right away.

That surprises me.

What I feel first is stranger than sadness. Stranger than joy. It’s grief, yes, but not for death exactly. For time. For proof. For the simple violence of being able to hold evidence that you were loved and still grew up believing you had to earn it.

“She looks happy,” I say.

My father’s voice is rough when he answers. “She was.”

And that does it.

My eyes burn.

I look away, blinking hard.

Rafe’s hand closes around mine under the table.

Solid.

Steady.

Not rescuing me. Just staying.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” I admit.

“You don’t have to do anything with it today,” my mother says immediately. “Or tomorrow. Or next week. You can take your time.”

I laugh once under my breath, watery and broken at the edges.

“Everybody keeps telling me that.”

“Then maybe,” my father says gently, “it’s because it’s true.”

For the first time since sitting down, I smile.

Small.

But real.

We talk for almost another hour after that.

Not about the crime in full. Not about legal records or police reports or every terrible detail. Daniel already gave me enough of that to know the outline. Today isn’t for facts. It’s for shape. Texture. People.

I find out my mother teaches literature at a private school. My father restores old boats and somehow that is exactly the kind of weirdly specific detail that makes him feel more real to me.

They ask about school, and this time when they ask, it doesn’t feel like paperwork. It feels like curiosity.

I tell them about Coral Bay.

My mother smiles through tears. “You always loved books.”

I blink. “I did?”

She laughs softly. “You chewed on half of them first, but yes.”

That image hits me in such an absurd, ordinary way that I laugh too.

And that—more than anything—breaks the impossible pressure of the meeting.

By the time we stand, my chest feels heavy in a different way.

Still full.

Still aching.

But not split open.

My mother doesn’t hug me.

She waits.

My father waits too.

And maybe that’s what makes me step forward.

Not all the way. Not dramatically. Just enough to let her wrap her arms around me for one brief, careful second.

She shakes when she breathes.

So do I.

When we pull apart, her hands stay at my shoulders only long enough to make sure I’m really there.

Then she lets me go.

No grabbing.

No pleading.

No “please.”

Just trust.

When we walk back out to the car, I stop before getting in.

Rafe waits.

He knows better than to fill the silence too fast.

“It was okay,” I say finally.

Then I shake my head.

“No. It was more than okay. It was just... hard.”

He leans against the car door beside me.

“Yeah.”

I look at him. “How do you always know the right answer?”

“I don’t.”

“It’s annoying when you pretend you don’t.”

That earns me a quiet smile.

I exhale and look back at the café window. They’re still inside. My mother is dabbing under her eyes. My father is watching the door like he knows I might turn around.

I don’t.

Not today.

But I also don’t feel like I’m walking away from them anymore.

Just away from this moment.

And that is different.

That matters.

Rafe opens my door.

I get in.

Before he closes it, I look up at him and say the truest thing I have.

“I think I want to try.”

His expression softens in a way I can feel all the way through me.

“Good,” he says.

And this time, good feels big enough.