The silence that returned to the house was different this time.

It was not the tense, suffocating silence of secrets and lies.

It was the quiet of a storm that had finally passed, leaving nothing but the wreckage behind.

My father stood by the railing of the staircase, his head bowed, looking down at the empty foyer.

His shoulders shook slightly, and for a moment, he looked like an old man.

Rosa walked over to the hallway closet and pulled out a clean, dry towel.

She walked to my father and gently handed it to him.

He took it without a word, using it to wipe his face, which was wet with sweat and tears.

Then, my father turned around and looked at us.

He looked at Rosa first, his eyes filled with a deep, painful shame.

“Rosa,” my father said, his voice cracking. “I do not even know how to begin to ask for your forgiveness.”

Rosa did not speak, but her eyes softened, and she took a small step closer to him.

My father then looked at Martina and me.