Epilogue — Six Months Later
The review was in February.
Judge Varela was the same judge — Marcos had learned this wasn’t always the case, that continuity was a matter of luck, and so he had come to understand it as such.
The records were good. The social worker who visited monthly had submitted reports that Patricia described as the best I’ve seen in this type of situation. Tomás’s grades at school had improved. Marcos had kept his job and added a few hours on Sundays. The foster family — the Herreras, Elena and Bernardo, two people Marcos had come to respect with the sober gratitude of someone who has learned not to take kindness for granted — had submitted their own report.
The hearing lasted twenty minutes.
At the end, Judge Varela approved the continuation.
When Marcos and Tomás walked out into the hallway, Tomás said:
“Is it permanent now?”
“More permanent,” said Marcos. “Things get reviewed.”
“But more permanent.”
“Yes.”
Tomás walked in silence for a moment.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Always.”
“When you said the thing about the grated cheese. That I’m the one who eats when you cook. Why did you say that?”
Marcos thought.
“Because it was true,” he said. “And because the truth was more than I had.”
Tomás nodded with the gravity of someone processing a philosophy.
“Grated cheese really is different,” he said finally.
“I know.”
“I just wanted to confirm it.”
Marcos laughed. A real laugh, surprised, the kind you don’t calculate but that simply happens to you.
They walked outside.
It was a cold February day, the sky that specific white that comes before rain, and the streets had the quiet of a weekday morning. Tomás put his hand in Marcos’s — not because he needed to be held but because he wanted to be, which was a difference Marcos had learned to recognize and to value.
They walked.
Nowhere in particular. Just walked, the two of them, in the February cold, in the city where they had lost what they had lost and had found, in the most unlikely place and form, that they still had something.
Each other.
Which was, in the end, what it had always been.
