I walked out of the building and into the crisp autumn air.

The sun was trying to break through the gray clouds.

I walked to the park, watching the leaves fall onto the gravel paths.

For the first time in ten years, I did not feel the weight of Alvaro’s shadow.

I went to the school to pick up the children.

They ran to me when the gates opened.

My daughter grabbed my hand, her fingers warm and sticky with candy.

“Where is Papa?” my son asked, looking around the crowded street.

“He had to go away for a long time,” I said.

“Will he come back?”

“No,” I said.

“It is just us now.”

My son looked at me for a moment, then nodded.

He took my other hand.

We walked home together through the quiet streets of Madrid.

The city was busy around us, indifferent to our small victory.

In the weeks that followed, the trial of Alvaro Montero became a fixture on the evening news.

I did not watch it.

Matthew called me once to tell me he had given his deposition.