The morning sun had just begun to stretch across the backyard when Camila stepped into the kitchen, drawn by the scent of brewing coffee and the low hum of the radio playing an old soul tune. Her father stood at the counter, pouring two mugs—one for himself, one already waiting for her.
He turned as she entered, his salt-and-pepper beard catching the light. "Morning, baby girl."
"Morning, Daddy," she said, her voice still soft with sleep.
He handed her the mug. "Cream and sugar, just how you like it."
Camila smiled, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic. "Thank you."
They sat at the kitchen table, the same one she'd done homework on as a child, the same one where birthday cakes had been cut and bills had been paid. Outside the window, the marigolds swayed in the breeze, and a squirrel darted across the fence with a stolen acorn.
Her father took a slow sip of his coffee, then looked at her with quiet eyes. "How you feeling this morning?"
Camila hesitated. "Better. Tired. But better."
He nodded. "That's something."
They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that didn't need to be filled. Her father had always been like that—steady, patient, a man who spoke when it mattered and listened when it counted.
"I was thinking about you last night," he said finally. "About how strong you are."
Camila looked down at her mug. "I don't feel strong."
"You don't have to feel it to be it," he said. "Sometimes strength is just getting up. Breathing. Choosing not to go back."
She swallowed hard. "I keep wondering if I missed something. If I should've seen it sooner."
Her father shook his head. "No. That's not on you. When someone wants to hide something, they'll find a way. That's not your failure. That's their choice."
Camila blinked back tears. "I gave him everything."
"I know," he said. "And he didn't deserve it."
He leaned back in his chair, looking out the window. "Your mother and I—we've had our storms. But we never let the door open to someone else. That's the difference. Love isn't perfect. But it's sacred. And when you make a vow, you honor it. Even when it's hard."
Camila nodded slowly. "That's what Mom said."
"She's right," he said. "She usually is."
They both smiled.
Her father reached across the table, placed his hand over hers. "You're not broken, Camila. You're bruised. But you're still whole. And you're not alone."
She squeezed his hand, her throat tight with emotion.
"I'm proud of you," he said. "For walking away. For knowing your worth. That takes more courage than most people ever find."
Camila looked at him, her eyes shining. "Thank you, Daddy."
He gave her hand a final squeeze, then stood to refill their mugs. "Now drink up. You've got another day ahead of you. And I have a feeling it's going to be a good one."
Camila watched him move around the kitchen, humming along to the radio. She took a sip of her coffee, the warmth spreading through her chest.
And for the first time in a long while, she believed him.
The alarm buzzed softly at 5:45 a.m., and Camila stirred beneath the quilt. The guest room was still dark, the lace curtains fluttering gently in the early breeze. She sat up slowly, rubbed her eyes, and reached for her phone. No messages. No missed calls. Just silence.
She liked it that way.
She dressed in black cargo pants and a soft gray long-sleeve shirt, her white Y2K sneakers laced tight. Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and she clipped a small frog barrette just above her ear—a quiet nod to herself. She grabbed her backpack, slipped on her jacket, and headed to the kitchen.
Her mother had left a thermos of coffee and a small container of overnight oats on the counter, sealed with a handwritten note: Have a strong day. Love you. Camila smiled, tucked the note into her pocket, and stepped out into the morning.
The drive to the warehouse was quiet. The sky was still waking, streaked with pale pink and silver. Camila parked in the same spot as yesterday, took a deep breath, and walked toward the entrance.
Inside, the warehouse buzzed with early energy. Conveyor belts hummed, carts rolled, and the scent of cardboard and coffee filled the air. Camila checked in, clipped on her badge, and made her way to Line Three.
Janelle greeted her with a nod. "Morning, Camila. You're on packing today. We've got a rush order for the wellness kits—vitamins, teas, and those fancy sleep masks."
Camila nodded. "Got it."
She settled into her station, slipped on her gloves, and began. The rhythm came quickly—box, insert, seal, label. Her fingers moved with quiet precision, her mind focused. She liked the clarity of it. The simplicity. The way her body could move without her heart having to explain itself.
Around mid-morning, a new worker joined her line—a young woman named Tasha with bright eyes and a nervous smile.
"Hi," she said. "I'm new. First day."
Camila offered a soft smile. "You'll be fine. Just follow the rhythm."
They worked side by side, exchanging quiet glances and occasional tips. Tasha fumbled once, dropping a box, and Camila helped her reassemble it without a word. There was no judgment. Just motion. Just grace.
By lunch, Camila sat at the break table with her thermos and oats, watching the others chat and scroll through their phones. She didn't feel the need to join. She didn't feel alone, either. She was simply... present.
Janelle passed by, tapping her clipboard. "You've got a good flow, Camila. We're lucky to have you."
Camila nodded. "Thanks. It helps to stay busy."
Janelle paused. "You've got a quiet strength. People notice that."
Camila looked down at her spoon, then back up. "I'm just trying to rebuild."
Janelle smiled. "You're doing it."
The afternoon passed in steady motion. Camila packed, sorted, lifted, sealed. Her body ached, but her spirit felt steady. She helped Tasha with a mislabeled bin, laughed once at a joke from the forklift driver, and even hummed along to the soft music playing overhead.
By the end of the shift, her gloves were worn, her shirt damp with effort, but her heart felt... lighter.
She clocked out, waved goodbye to Tasha, and stepped into the fading light.
The sky was golden now, the air cool against her cheeks.
Camila climbed into her SUV, started the engine, and sat for a moment.