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That night, rain made crescents against the glass. Claudia sat on the stoop, belly now large enough that people began to make space for it when they passed. She told me about Arturo’s last gift—an old wooden rocking horse for the child they would have, varnished and gentle with the light of a man who loved wood more than gold. She had found the money for the house by selling some of Arturo’s tools and refused help from neighbors who wanted to pay their condolences in labor.

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“Oh,” she said. “The cousin, Mariela. She’s been her own hurricane. She says she can manage things better—claims she has paperwork from before Arturo’s brother died.” There was a pause. “She’s been a storm I never invited.” That night, rain made crescents against the glass