At my daughter’s funeral, my son-in-law announced he was sending my three granddaughters away so he could “start over,” never knowing the girls had hidden the notebook, recordings, and secrets that would destr0y him on his wedding day.

“If nobody wants to take responsibility for those girls, I’ll leave them with social services on Monday. I’m not wasting my life raising children from a dead woman.”

That was what my son-in-law said beside my daughter’s grave.

Not privately. Not quietly. Not even with the dignity of a grieving husband.

He said it out loud in the middle of the cemetery in Puebla, while the dirt covering Rosa’s coffin was still fresh and the cheap lilies around her grave still carried their bitter scent. My daughter had just been buried at thirty-five years old, and Arturo was already talking about abandoning his daughters as if they were old belongings he no longer wanted.

I felt something crack inside my chest.

My three granddaughters stood beside me.

Twelve-year-old Lucía held her mother’s photograph tightly against her chest.

Nine-year-old Renata stared into the distance without blinking.

Six-year-old Abril hid behind my black coat, trembling silently.

Arturo looked perfectly composed. Gray suit. Expensive watch. Polished shoes. Not a wrinkle on his face. Not a trace of sorrow in his eyes.

He checked a message on his phone and smirked slightly, like somebody somewhere was waiting to celebrate with him.

“What did you just say?” I asked.

He sighed impatiently, like I was the inconvenience.

“Don Julián, don’t make this harder than it already is. Rosa is gone. I deserve to move on.”

“And your daughters?”

He pointed toward the girls carelessly.

“My new partner isn’t going to raise three girls who barely listen to me anyway. You’re their grandfather. If you care about them so much, take them.”

Several relatives lowered their eyes in shame. My godmother covered her mouth. Even the priest suddenly became very interested in adjusting his robe so he wouldn’t have to witness the scene.

For one second, I wanted to hit Arturo right there in front of everyone.

But Abril squeezed my hand tightly, and I stopped myself.

Lucía didn’t cry.

That frightened me more than anything else.

She looked calmly at her father, then at her sisters. The three girls exchanged a silent understanding that felt far too mature for children their age.

That was when I realized they already knew something.

Something I didn’t.

“From now on, you’re coming home with me,” I told them.

Arturo laughed under his breath.

“Perfect. That’s one less burden for me.”

He didn’t hug his daughters goodbye.