Chapter 9 - The Rebuilding
Three months later, the California sun was bright and warm over the coastal town of Santa Barbara.
I had sold our old apartment in Los Angeles, erased every physical tie to the Vance name, and legally restored my maiden name—Mariana Delgado. Leo’s legal name was now officially Leonard Delgado.
We bought a small, beautiful white cottage sitting on a hillside overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It had a wraparound porch, a big backyard filled with orange trees, and a wooden fence where Leo could run safely in the grass.
My father moved into the guest house on the property, spending his mornings fixing up his old wooden fishing boat and his afternoons teaching Leo how to throw a ball.
On a bright Tuesday morning, I sat on the front porch, watching Leo chase a yellow butterfly across the lawn. His laughter was light, ringing out over the sound of the ocean waves crashing against the cliffs below.
My phone rang.
It was Evelyn Reed.
“Mariana,” Evelyn said smoothly. “I just finished reading the final court transcripts from the federal sentencing hearing downtown.”
“What did the judge decide?” I asked, taking a sip of iced tea.
“Beatrice received life without the possibility of parole at the federal correctional facility in Dublin,” Evelyn reported. “Richard received twenty-five years for corporate fraud and conspiracy. And Ryan...”
She paused.
“Ryan was sentenced to eighteen years,” Evelyn said softly. “He waived his right to appeal as part of a plea deal to avoid the child trafficking charges.”
I looked out over the blue ocean, feeling a quiet, heavy stillness settle in my chest.
Eighteen years. Ryan would be almost fifty when he walked out of prison. By then, Leo would be a grown man—a man who would never know his father’s voice, never know his father’s face, except as a tragic, cautionary lesson in history books.
“Thank you, Evelyn,” I said softly.
“How is Leo?” she asked gently.
May you like
I looked down at my son, who had stopped running and was now standing near my father’s knees, helping him paint the wooden rudder of his fishing boat with a tiny paintbrush, his face covered in blue paint and pure, unadulterated joy.
“He’s perfect,” I said, a real, unshakeable smile spreading across my face. “He’s completely free.”
