Page 134 of Hidden Memories

Theo’s arms tighten around Kat’s neck, his face pressed against her shoulder.

But before we climb in, Theo shifts, his head turning toward Nic who’s being lowered into the car. His smirk is now replaced by a blank, defeated expression.

Theo wriggles out of Kat’s arms, and before we can stop him, he rushes toward Nic, Kat quickly following to keep him close. My heart lurches, every instinct screaming to pull him back, to shield him. But then I see it—that fire in Theo’s eyes. The same fire I see in Kat when she’s defending what’s hers.

My boy, barely as tall as Nic’s waist, is being his own hero. His hands curl into fists, his breath shaky but sure. He doesn’t back down, doesn’t look away, just lifts his chin and delivers the words like a truth he’s always known.

“You’re not my dad,” he says, each word sharp and deliberate, his voice carrying a quiet, unshakable power that reverberates in my chest. “And you never deserved to be.”

Nic’s steps slow, and for the first time, his mask cracks. Something flashes in his eyes—shame, maybe, or regret. But it’s gone just as quickly, swallowed by the same cold indifference that’s defined him.

Kat takes Theo’s hand. “Come on, honey. Let’s go home.”

We’re not whole yet. We’ve still got scars to mend and wounds to heal. But we’re together. And for now, that’s enough.

Chapter Thirty-Four

PRESENT

Santi parksthe truck in front of his house, his knuckles tight on the steering wheel. For a moment, neither of us move.

It’s as if we’re tethered. Sharing the same breath, the same exhale, the same weight of relief. Theo sleeps in the backseat, his body curled up, the adrenaline finally giving out.

Santi steps out of the truck and circles to the passenger side. He opens Theo’s door and reaches down, his arms strong and sure when he takes my son into hisembrace. To Santi, Theo is practically weightless. But the care in his movements speaks volumes. His hand cradles the back of Theo’s head like he’s holding something fragile—something irreplaceable.

Tonight, Santi would have done anything for him. For us. He called us his family.

The word lingers in my mind, heavy and tender, soothing the jagged edges of my heart. At the time, I was so focused on Theo, on his safety, on surviving, that I barely registered it. But now, watching Santi walk toward the house, Theo’s head slung over his broad shoulder, his steps slow and careful, it sinks in.

He meant it.

This—what I’m seeing right now—is a picture I didn’t even know I’d been carrying inside me, waiting to be painted.

For so long, I believed love had to be earned—by giving, by doing, by sacrificing. That it came with conditions. That’s what my father taught me, and I spent my life trying to be enough.

Santi showed me something else. Love that doesn’t ask, doesn’t weigh, doesn’t keep score. Love that’s steady, quiet, ferocious. He didn’t fight for Theo tonight because he had to—he fought because there was no world in which he wouldn’t. Because that’s what love does. It moves. It acts. It protects. No proof required.

That truth was always there—buried beneath my father’s conditions, Nic’s control, and the fear that clouded me for too long.

I always knew what love was. I chose it at eighteen. When I kissed Santi beneath that tree. When we got those tattoos. When we walked away from everything to build something new. Together.

Santi glances over his shoulder when he reaches the porch, his eyes finding mine in the soft light. There’s a question there, unspoken but clear.

Are you okay?

I nod, a lump forming in my throat. I follow him inside. My steps are slow, heavy with exhaustion—but lighter than they’ve been in years.

Inside the house, the familiar scent of cedar and leather greets me. Santi carries Theo up the stairs, his wide shoulders silhouetted against the dim light filtering through the windows. I follow my boys up, as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake Theo.

But when Santi lays him down in bed, my little boy stirs. He’s grown up since this morning.

“Mom?” He whispers.

“I’m here,” I smooth hair off his forehead.

Santi kneels beside us, his large hand covering Theo’s smaller one. He murmurs, “You’re safe. At home…”

Theo’s eyes flutter closed. “I know.” His breathing evens out and sleep takes him again.

---