Emilio, when told what might happen, goes so still Miguel worries he is upset.
Then the boy says, “So she’d live here? Like really live here?”
“Yes.”
“For good?”
“If the court approves. And if Sofia wants that too.”
Emilio considers this with solemn gravity for all of half a second before grinning so hard it almost splits him in two. “I’m going to clean the telescope.”
“Why is that the first thing you thought of?”
“Because she’ll use it more than me.”
Miguel laughs. “That is the least efficient declaration of love I have ever heard.”
“It’s not love,” Emilio mutters, turning red. “It’s astronomy.”
“Of course.”
Sofia’s answer, when asked privately by her attorney, is the one that undoes Miguel completely.
“I want to live where people notice when I’m gone,” she says.
The court approves the guardianship in June.
No violins swell. No confetti falls. The judge signs papers, says a few measured words, and moves on to the next case because courtrooms are assembly lines for the most intimate fractures of human life. Yet when they walk outside into the heat, the sky seems absurdly blue, as if the city has accidentally overcommitted to hope.
Sofia now has a room of her own, painted pale green after rejecting five other shades with surprising authority. She has a school desk by the window, a corkboard cluttered with star charts, and a drawer full of medical supplies that are always stocked before they run low. Mrs. Hargrove remains in their lives as honorary grandmother-by-force-of-personality. Elena appears every Sunday with legal advice nobody requested and desserts nobody can refuse.
Miguel still works too much sometimes.
