Sofia's tenth birthday arrived in March.
A decade. Our baby was ten years old.
We threw a party at the restaurant her request. Invited her entire class, her soccer team, family, close friends.
"Double digits!" she announced to everyone. "I'm officially old now!"
"You're not old," Rosa told her. "You're just getting started."
"That's what Mama says. But I feel old. I have homework and responsibilities and everything."
"Welcome to life, kiddo."
I watched Sofia with her friends, laughing and playing and being gloriously, wonderfully normal. Ten years old and worried about homework and soccer practice and whether her friends liked her birthday cake.
Not worried about mob wars or federal investigations or any of the darkness that had consumed my childhood.
We'd done it. Given her something different. Something better.
"She's happy," Tony said, appearing beside me. He'd come down for the party with his family. "You should be proud."
"I am. Every day."
