Mom brought too much food.
We ate on the patio.
At sunset, Dad raised his glass.
“To Elena.”
I groaned.
“No speeches.”
“One sentence.”
“That’s what you always say.”
He smiled.
“To the daughter who walked through fire.”
I shook my head.
“I’d rather be the daughter who doesn’t have to do that again.”
Mom laughed.
Dad did too.
Then I raised my own glass.
“To smoke detectors.”
We laughed until my face hurt.
Not the old pain.
A good pain.
The kind that comes from smiling too long.
Later, after they left, I checked the doors.
