Three months later, in the hush before sunrise, Paulo slipped away. There was no thunder, no drama—just a soft exhale, a loosening. Mira was at his side, her fingers laced through his, whispering “I love you” again and again, as if those words could light the path ahead. His face grew calm, a faint smile touching his lips, as though he had finally reached a shore where pain could not follow.
After the funeral, Mira did not pack a suitcase. She did not return to her parents’ house. She did not chase a new life somewhere far away. She stayed—with me. We began to run our little food stall together, side by side behind the counter. She learned which regulars liked extra chili, which uncles preferred their rice a little crusty from the pot, which children would grin if you added a sliver more of lumpia. In the evenings we sat on the step, letting the day breathe out around us.
It has been two years now. People still ask, curious and kind, “Why is Mira still living with you?” I only smile. Some bonds are written on paper; others are written in blood, in sweat, in sleepless nights and folded sheets.
“She wasn’t only my son’s wife,” I say. “She became my daughter, too. This will always be her home.”