I found a torn navy-blue button clutched in my dead wife’s hand at her staged funeral—and I knew instantly it belonged to my brother, and that my mother’s cold grief was just another lie.

Three months passed.

The trial was quick.

With all the evidence—the DNA, the button, the medical reports, the confessions, the testimony from Rosa, Marisol, and Dr. Ana—there was no way to win.

Teresa was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

Rodrigo got the same.

They were sent to a maximum-security facility six hours away. I never had to see them again.

The vineyards were thriving.

With Teresa and Rodrigo gone, the books were clean. The workers were happy. The harvest that year was the best in a decade. Marcos told me we’d made more profit in three months than the vineyards had made in the entire previous year.

Sebastián was growing like a weed.

He was three months old now, smiling all the time, holding his head up, trying to roll over. He had Camila’s eyes. Her smile. Her laugh—a loud, belly laugh that made the whole house light up.

Rosa was the best thing that could’ve happened to us. She doted on Sebastián like he was her own grandchild. She sang to him in Spanish while she cooked. She taught him nursery rhymes my own mother had never bothered with.

Dr. Ana came over every week for dinner. She’d hold Sebastián for hours, telling him stories about his mother, making sure he was hitting all his milestones.

Carlos had moved into the guest house out back. He was officially our security, but unofficially, he was Sebastián’s favorite person to make faces at. He’d taught himself to do magic tricks just to make the baby laugh.

We were a family.

A strange, broken, perfect family.

But there was still one thing I had to do.

One thing that had been hanging over me since the funeral.

Camila’s funeral.

The real one.

The first one had been a lie. A performance. Teresa and Rodrigo had used it as a stage. I hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye properly.

I planned it for a Saturday.

Just a small service. No big crowds. No reporters. Just the people who’d loved her.

I buried her in the small cemetery on the hill overlooking the vineyards. It was where my father was buried. Where my grandparents were buried. Where Camila had always said she wanted to be.

The sun was shining that day. A soft breeze blew, carrying the scent of grapes and jasmine.

Rosa had made an arrangement of white lilies—Camila’s favorite. Dr. Ana brought a photo album of their college years. Marcos came. Don Javier and all the vineyard workers came, standing quietly at the back. Marisol came, holding her daughter’s hand. Detective Soto came. Carlos came.

And of course, Sebastián came.

I held him in my arms the whole time.

I didn’t give a big speech.

I just talked. Like I was talking to her.

“Camila,” I said, looking down at her casket. “I don’t really know what to say. Except thank you. Thank you for loving me. For choosing me. For giving me the greatest gift of my life.” I held Sebastián a little higher. “You saved him, you know. With that button. With your bravery. You gave him a chance. And you gave me my life back.”

I paused, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“I’m going to take care of him,” I promised. “I’m going to give him everything. Every Christmas. Every birthday. Every first. I’m going to tell him about you every single day. He’s going to know his mother. He’s going to know how much you loved him.”

The breeze picked up, rustling the leaves in the nearby oak tree.

“I’m going to be okay,” I said. “We’re going to be okay. Because of you. Because of the love you gave me. I’ll never forget it. I’ll never forget you.”

I stepped forward and laid a single white lily on her casket.

“Goodbye, my love,” I whispered. “Until we meet again.”

The service ended.

People came up to me one by one, offering their condolences, their love, their support.

When everyone had left, I stayed.

I sat on the grass next to her grave, Sebastián asleep in my lap, and just talked. I told her about the vineyards. About the trial. About how Sebastián had laughed for the first time the week before. About how Rosa had taught me to make her favorite mole and I’d burned it three times before getting it right.

I told her I missed her.

That I’d always miss her.

When the sun started to go down, I stood up.

I brushed the grass off my jeans and adjusted Sebastián’s blanket.

“I have to go now,” I said to the headstone. “But I’ll be back. Every week. I promise.”

I walked down the hill toward the car.

Halfway down, I stopped and looked back.

The sun was setting behind the vineyards, painting the sky pink and orange and gold. Her headstone glowed in the light.

And for just a second, I swear I saw her.

Standing there, in the golden light, smiling at me. Waving.

And then she was gone.

But I didn’t feel sad.