When the sentence was read, I felt no triumph and no relief, only a bone-deep exhaustion, because none of it brought Sebastian back, and none of it gave Camila a father she could be proud of, and no number of years behind a wall could unmake three years of a lie.

The hardest day came six months later, when the court permitted us to correct the grave.

It was a crisp spring morning at the cemetery, and Teresa carried white roses, and Joaquin walked slowly with a heavy cane, and I held Camila’s hand while the stone was changed.

When the mason set the correct name into the marble at last, Teresa reached out and traced the fresh-carved letters with her fingertips, SEBASTIAN MORALES, and bowed her head, and wept.

“For three years I called you by your brother’s name,” she whispered to the stone.