The morning sun crept through the lace curtains, casting soft golden patterns across the guest room walls. Camila stirred beneath the quilt, her body still heavy with sleep, her mind fogged with fragments of dreams she couldn't quite hold onto. She blinked slowly, adjusting to the light, and sat up.
The room was quiet. Safe.
She stretched, her cotton pajamas wrinkled from sleep, and padded barefoot to the window. Outside, the marigolds in her mother's garden swayed gently in the breeze. A robin hopped along the fence. The world felt slower here—gentler.
She turned back to the bed and reached for her journal. The leather cover was cool to the touch. She opened to a fresh page and began to write.
> *October 19, 2030. Sunday morning.
> I slept. Not deeply. Not peacefully. But I slept.
> I'm still aching. Still unraveling.
> But I'm here.
> I'm home.
> And maybe that's enough for today.*
She closed the journal, placed it on the nightstand, and headed to the kitchen.
Her mother was already there, humming softly as she flipped pancakes on the griddle. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla filled the air. Her father sat at the table, reading the paper, his glasses perched low on his nose.
"Morning, baby," her mother said, turning with a smile.
Camila smiled faintly. "Morning."
"Sit," her father said, pulling out a chair. "We've got coffee and pancakes. And your mom made turkey sausage."
Camila sat, the warmth of the kitchen wrapping around her like a blanket. Her mother placed a plate in front of her—two golden pancakes, a pat of butter melting slowly, syrup drizzled in a spiral. The turkey sausage sizzled on the side.
She took a bite. It was perfect.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, the clink of forks and the rustle of newspaper the only sounds.
Then her mother sat beside her, wiping her hands on a towel.
"I've been thinking," she said softly. "About everything you told us last night."
Camila looked up, her fork paused mid-air.
Her mother's eyes were steady. "I don't understand this generation. I really don't."
Her father nodded quietly.
Her mother continued. "People throw love around like it's a game. Like it's something you win or lose. But it's not. It's sacred. It's a promise."
Camila swallowed hard.
"You don't just touch someone's body because you're bored or lonely," her mother said. "You don't invite someone into your spirit unless that connection is real. Unless it's rooted in something deeper than desire."
Her voice trembled slightly. "Your body is a temple, Camila. It's not just skin and bone. It's memory. It's emotion. It's sacred."
Camila's eyes filled with tears.
Her mother reached for her hand. "You gave your husband your temple. Your trust. Your heart. And he let someone else walk in. That's not just betrayal. That's desecration."
Her father set down his paper. "You did nothing wrong."
Camila nodded slowly. "I just... I don't understand how he could do it. For so long. Without guilt."
Her mother's voice softened. "Because some people forget what love is. They forget that it's not just about being seen—it's about seeing the other person. Holding them. Honoring them."
Camila wiped her cheeks. "I tried so hard."
Her mother kissed her forehead. "And that's why you're still whole. Because you loved with intention. With purity."
They sat in silence, the morning light warming the kitchen tiles.
Camila took another bite of her pancake, the syrup sweet against her tongue.
She didn't have all the answers.
But she had truth.