I do not spend my days hating Santiago.

Hatred is exhausting, and I have a daughter to raise and a life to rebuild and no strength to spare for it.

Hatred would only be one more thing he took from me, one more room of my life he got to occupy, and I have decided he has occupied enough of them already.

But I do not soften what he did, either, to make myself more comfortable.

The last time we visited, Camila laid a single white rose on the stone, and she looked at it for a while, and then she said, so quietly I almost missed it, “He had my dad’s face.

But he made better choices.” I pulled her against me and held her there in the spring light.

Two men had been born with the very same face.

But only one of them ever understood that losing your money, or your reputation, or even your freedom, will never be as terrible as losing your soul.