88I came home early and nearly fired the young maid I found sitting on my kitchen floor, making my three daughters laugh for the first time since their mother was murdered. But before I could throw her out, my eldest daughter grabbed my coat, looked me straight in the eyes, and spoke her first words in fourteen months: “Daddy killed Mommy.”

That evening, the sunset painted the sky over the Long Island Sound in magnificent shades of orange, purple, and gold.

We sat together on the wooden deck overlooking the water—me, Clara, and my three daughters.

The girls were tired from a long afternoon of playing in the waves, curled up under a plush blanket on the large outdoor sofa. Mia had her head resting against my lap, Valentina was leaning against Clara’s side, and Lucia sat between us, holding both of our hands.

"Daddy?" Lucia whispered, looking up at the evening sky.

"Yes, my sweet girl?"

"Is Mommy watching us from the stars?"

I looked up at the first bright star appearing in the twilight sky, feeling a profound sense of peace wash over my heart.

"She is, Lucia," I said gently, tightening my arm around my daughter. "And she's very, very happy because she sees how loved you are."

Lucia smiled, leaning her head against my chest. She began to hum a low, sweet melody—a song Isabella used to sing to them every night before bed.

Mia and Valentina joined in, their small, clear voices blending together in the quiet evening air, rising up toward the heavens like a beautiful prayer of thanks.

Clara reached across Lucia, resting her hand over mine. I looked into her hazel eyes, seeing a future filled not with shadows, revenge, or fear, but with light, warmth, and an enduring love.