Inheritance of Shadows

XIX

The road to recovery had been slow and grueling. Damian had spent months in the hospital, enduring surgeries, therapy, and moments of deep despair. But now, finally, he was being discharged. His parents, sisters, and even his new brother-in-law were there to greet him at the hospital doors, each with tears in their eyes and warmth in their smiles.

Javier stepped forward and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "What do you want to do, mijo?"

Damian, still pale and thinner than before, looked up with quiet eyes. "I want to see our land," he said. "Even if it's just from afar."

Javier gave a faint smile, the kind that carried both sorrow and understanding. "Later, son. Later."

They returned to what had become home—Aunt Sofía's guest house, nestled behind her old obrador. Years had passed since they'd first sought refuge there, and now it bore the marks of time and memory. The rooms were lived-in, the walls hung with old photos and Victoria's sketches of the family. It had once been a temporary shelter; now it felt like a lived chapter in their story.

Much had happened within those walls. There were more tears than laughs, more scars than trophies, but joy had made its rare appearances too. Helena's engagement, then her wedding. Damian's triumphant return after winning the jaripeo, his proud grin as he held the championship belt aloft. Victoria, always with her sketchbook, capturing fleeting moments in graphite and charcoal.

Javier and Alicia had done all they could to hold their family together, even as the world around them seemed determined to pull them apart.

That evening, the family gathered for a feast in Damian's honor. Aunt Sofía had pulled out all the stops—mole, barbacoa, tortillas fresh from the comal. The table was long and crowded, full of chatter, laughter, and clinking glasses. Some of Sofía's children were there, as well as neighbors and friends who had stood by the Betancourts through the darkest years.

When the plates were nearly empty and the evening sun cast a golden light through the windows, Javier rose to his feet. He held a glass of mezcal high, his eyes scanning each face around the table.

"To the memories," he began, his voice steady. "To the pain, and to the joy. To the ones we've lost, and the ones we've become. And to the future—wherever it may take us."

The room fell quiet.

"I have an announcement to make," he continued. "We won't be living in Topilejo anymore."

A murmur rippled through the room.

"It hurts me to say that. God knows it does. But it hurts less than waking up every day and being reminded of what we lost... of how I failed my family's legacy. I've fought, tooth and nail, for eight years. Eight years trying to win back what was ours. But if eight years haven't changed our fate, I've come to believe that more time won't either. Not if we're just forcing something that refuses to be."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in.

"It's not surrender," he said. "It's acceptance. And it's also a new beginning. An old friend of mine reached out—he's starting a transport company. Big rigs, long hauls. I always loved trucks, you all know that. So for once, I get to turn my passion into our livelihood."

Helena and Aunt Sofía exchanged glances. Helena leaned forward, her voice soft but curious. "Where are you going?"

Javier met her eyes with quiet strength. "To the State of Mexico. Not far from Puebla. It's peaceful there—quiet and green. The land reminds me a lot of Topilejo. Same mountain air, same pine-covered hills. Maybe not the same memories, but enough of the same soul that we won't miss the land as much. It won't be home just yet... but I believe it could become one."