She had learned, from months of Chloe and years of my absence, to brace for the anger of adults.

“Valeria.

Sofia,” I said, and my voice broke on their names as I extended my arms toward them.

“I am so, so sorry.” Valeria studied my face, timidly, searching it.

“Are you,” she whispered, “are you mad at us, Daddy?” “At you?” The tears came then, and I did not fight them.

“Never at you.

Never, ever at you.” And Sofia peeked out from behind Marisol’s apron, her tiny voice trembling.

“Chloe said we were bad girls,” she whispered.