For so long, Javier had spoken about my business as though it were something he'd allowed me to have.
Now the legal record reflected what had always been true.
It was mine.
"Thank you," I whispered.
After hanging up, I expected to feel victorious.
Instead, I sat in silence.
Because justice could restore money.
It could establish responsibility.
It could protect the future.
But it couldn't give me back the years I'd spent doubting myself.
That evening, I visited my mother.
She was making tortilla española in her small kitchen, humming softly while she turned potatoes in a pan.
When she saw me, she wiped her hands on a towel.
"Clara, cariño."
I hugged her.
She held me longer than usual.
Then she said, "There's something I need to tell you."
We sat at the kitchen table.
She placed an old photograph between us.
It showed me at twenty-three, standing outside my first office with a cardboard sign bearing my company name.
