"I am the boss of dinosaurs," Sofia offered.
"A sacred office," Carmen said solemnly.
Elena smiled despite herself. On the ride home Sofia fell asleep, pretzel salt on her cheek. In the quiet, Carmen said, "Thank you for the two hours."
"Do not make me regret them," Elena answered, and the sentence sounded harsher than she felt, and also exactly as careful as she needed to be.
That night Elena told Marco she could see a future in which Carmen was not a secret and not a wound only—a future in which Carmen was simply difficult family, which was different from exile. Marco listened. He did not celebrate prematurely. He washed the pretzel crumbs out of Sofia's coat pocket and hung it by the door.
Christmas approached with its usual commerce and its unusual hollow where Ricardo should have been. They set a place at Christmas Eve dinner anyway, not as theater but as acknowledgment. Carmen came with a store-bought flan and an anxiety she tried to hide behind helpfulness. She washed dishes before anyone asked. She stepped outside once when the family stories got too close to years she had missed, then came back in and stayed. Elena noticed the leaving and the returning both.
After dessert, Sofia insisted on a dance party in the family room. The navy sectional was pushed back. The reading lamp was joined by the Christmas tree lights. Marco danced badly on purpose. Carmen danced carefully, as if joy might be revoked. Elena danced with Sofia standing on her shoes, the pale-pink cardigan once again dragging at small ankles because Sofia had retrieved it from the closet like an old friend. The sparkly necklace bounced. No perfume appeared. The room smelled of pine and garlic and the ordinary miracle of people still choosing one another.