Choosing to Fight
Magdalena sat at the small table, staring at the closed folder. Her stomach knotted. Her chest tightened. Was throwing them into the street not enough?
“I’m going to find a lawyer,” Damián said at last. “We won’t leave this as it is.” “And how will we pay?” she blurted, then softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you.” He took her hand—steady, not forceful. “Let me help. I don’t want you to go through this alone.” She nodded. Pride had no place left. Accepting help wasn’t surrender; it was survival.
