Marisela never once engaged with it.

She never wrote the rebuttal, never took the bait of the occasional message, never gave Sabetha’s version the dignity of an argument.

She had learned that a long time ago, at a kitchen table, from a General who understood that you cannot win a fight with someone whose only remaining weapon is the story they tell themselves — and that trying only hands them the attention they are starving for.

Let Sabetha have her groove.

It changed nothing that was written down, and nothing that mattered.

What mattered was a small house that was quiet in the good way, and a daughter growing up in it who slept without a single thing to be afraid of, and a grandfather who came on Sundays, and an old woman named Ophelia who came on Sundays too.