Chapter 3 Egg Yolk & Old Ghosts

Five years later.

The waves worked like some artsy alarm… until another, much louder sound took over.

“MOVE OUT. WE’RE MOVING OUT.”

Hazel sprinted across the living room in her unicorn swimsuit, a floaty cinched around her waist, sunscreen smeared so randomly on her cheeks she looked ready for a carnival. Her hair was tied into two tight knots, bangs stuck to her forehead. She had these round cheeks that begged to be bitten and a face that wasn’t mine.

That face belonged to someone I’d shoved into a different folder in my head.

“Hazel,” I called from the dining table with a coffee mug in hand, laptop half open, a sketch hanging on the screen. “It’s not even seven. What exactly are we escaping from?”

“The boss!” Hazel jabbed a finger dramatically toward the kitchen.

Kayla stood there with a spatula, oversized tee and denim shorts, staring at my five year old like she was a baby hurricane.

“I just told her she needs to eat before we hit the beach,” Kayla said. “Apparently that’s oppression.”

Hazel clicked her tongue. “Kayla’s mean. She gave me broccoli.”

“That’s not broccoli, that’s parsley on your eggs,” I corrected.

“Same thing. It’s green,” Hazel muttered.

I sipped my coffee, trying not to smile. Our dining room faced a wall of glass that opened straight to the beach. Morning light spilled in, brushed over the wooden furniture, and made everything look expensive.

Well, it was expensive. Old Colombian money didn’t evaporate just because I moved continents.

This mansion was considered “small” by De Cruz standards. By normal human standards, it was the kind of house rich people used to pretend they were humble. Two floors, balcony over the ocean, direct access to the sand. White walls, pale wood floors, a few of Papa’s paintings he insisted I take so they wouldn’t “rot in storage.”

Hazel glared at her scrambled eggs. “These eggs look sad.”

“Your plate will look sad if you don’t finish it,” I said. “Come on, we need to get to the beach before the surfers grab the good spots.”

Hazel lit up, Her blue eyes widened. “The blond surfer guy?”

Mine were blue too. We shared that. The rest, from the jawline to the way she lifted one eyebrow, came straight from someone else.

“He has a name, sweetheart,” Kayla said. “And he’s twenty five.”

Hazel shrugged and shoveled in a bite. “I’m five. Almost six. Love doesn’t care about age.”

My eyes narrowed. “Who taught you that line?”

“Uncle Marvel,” Hazel answered without a hint of guilt. “He said it on the phone yesterday. About his girlfriend.”

Of course he did.

I typed quickly, trying to focus on the façade lines of a client’s house, but the glass kept pulling my gaze to my own reflection. My hair was tied in a messy knot, loose tee, shorts, no makeup. A relaxed version of the woman who once stood in front of a wedding dress.

Six years. Other people finished two degrees, had two kids, or switched jobs three times in that span.

Me? I learned how to be a mom, how to redraw a life from scratch, and how not to type “Rafael Bernardi” into a search bar.

“I’m done!” Hazel slapped her plate, a smear of yolk clinging to her lip.

Kayla handed her a napkin.

Hazel pushed it away. “You’ll ruin my lipstick.”

“You’re not wearing lipstick.” I walked over and wiped her mouth with my thumb. “That’s egg, not Fenty.”

Hazel glared at me. “You’re not aesthetic, Mamaaa.”

“I’m functional.” I tapped her bangs. “Go grab your bucket and shovel. Castle time.”

“A tall one like our house?” Hazel’s eyes sparkled.

“Taller than your uncle Marvel’s ego,” I said.

Hazel nearly toppled from her chair laughing.

Kayla shook her head. “One hour at the beach, then you’re back for that meeting, right?”

“Client at ten. Virtual.” I shut my laptop. “I’ve got enough time to pretend I’m an ideal mother before turning into a caffeine powered corporate goblin.”

Hazel had already disappeared down the hall, leaving a streak of sunscreen on the table. Kayla wiped it clean.

“She decorated her room again,” Kayla said. “Stickers. On the closet. And a bit on the window ten minutes ago.”

I inhaled. “Okay. I’ll go admire her ‘art’ this afternoon.”

Kayla gave me that brief look she always did when the conversation drifted too close to old ghosts. “You had the nightmare again?”

“I just woke up early.” I shrugged and perched on a barstool. “Emotional jetlag.”

Kayla lifted one eyebrow. “You’ve been here six years.”

“My emotions adapt slower.”

She never pushed. That was what made me love having her around. Kayla first showed up as a part time babysitter when Hazel was still a newborn, and somehow she’d turned into my unofficial American cousin.

Hazel reappeared dragging a blue bucket almost as big as she was, plus a red shovel. The unicorn float was still around her waist, her flip flops mismatched.

“Let’s go. The waves are calling me.” She halted and narrowed her eyes at me. “You cried, maa?”

My hand went to the corner of my eye out of instinct. Clear. Not red. “Why do you think I cried?”

“Because you look like a tissue commercial,” Hazel said. “Pretty but tired.”

Kayla choked on a laugh. I tapped Hazel’s forehead with my fingertip.

“Stop watching TV with your uncle,” I muttered. “You’re getting corrupted.”

Hazel grinned, all tiny white teeth. That smile. The same one that once made me give in when it still lived on the face of a man who wasn’t mine anymore.

I exhaled and slid open the glass door to the deck. Ocean air swept in, salty and warm. A narrow wooden path connected the deck to the sand. Hazel hopped down first, her bucket wobbling dangerously.

“Slow down!” I yelled.

“I’m strong!” she shouted, waving her arm.

Yes. You’re strong.

You’re also the reason I didn’t stay broken.

The night after that office, six years ago, I wasn’t strong.

I remembered the stupidest details. Rafael’s cologne clinging to the shirt I hadn’t changed. A dot of sauce on my sneakers. The cold metal of the emergency stair railing still pressed into my palm when I got home.

I came back with swollen eyes, wedding dress still hanging in my room like an expensive joke.

Marvel was the first to find me sitting on the floor, my back against the wardrobe, my phone in my hand with the screen gone dark.

“Maya?”

I lifted my head. Marvel dropped to the floor immediately, sat in front of me, took my shoulders.

“What did he do?”

I didn’t answer. I just collapsed into his chest and cried until it felt like my lungs were tearing out. Marvel didn’t say much. He held me, one hand on the back of my head, rocking gently like I was a child. His shirt soaked through at the chest. He never complained.

Once my sobs began to sputter, another sound filled the house. Papa’s rage downstairs, his deep voice pounding through marble walls. Rafael’s name. The Bernardi name. Words you weren’t supposed to repeat littering the air in three languages.

Mama cried between the bursts, torn between fury and grief, between wanting to destroy tomorrow’s flower arrangements and wanting to destroy someone’s face.

Javier came in later. He stood in the bedroom doorway, jaw locked. “What did he do?”

I shook my head, voice raw. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

That was the first sentence I managed clearly that night.

The second was, “I want to leave.”

Mama protested instantly. Papa said, “Tomorrow we expose him at the altar.”

Javier lifted his phone, ready to call someone. A lawyer, maybe. A hitman, possibly. I didn’t ask.

“I want to leave,” I repeated. “Out of here. Out of this city. Before tomorrow. Before… everything starts.”

Marvel was the first to nod. “Okay.” He rubbed my back. “If that’s what you want, we’ll handle it.”

The De Cruz family could be stubborn and impossibly proud. But if one of us fell, the rest snapped into formation like a barricade.

By the next morning, while the church bells were probably ringing and guests were wondering, I was already sitting by an airplane window, watching the city shrink under the clouds.

I left the ring on the vanity. Left the dress hanging.

I never found out what happened at the altar. Whether Papa made an announcement. Whether Rafael waited. Whether Elena stood behind him.

I never asked. I never checked social media. Marvel and Javier guarded my world like bodyguards, blocking anything that smelled like Bernardi.

Until a month into Los Angeles, when my body rebelled. Morning sickness that wasn’t limited to mornings. The smell of coffee turned my stomach. Turns out heartache had company.

“I’m just stressed,” I insisted at the time, sitting in a clinic with shaking hands clutching a test.

The doctor studied the ultrasound. A gentle smile spread across her face. “Congratulations, Ms. De Cruz. Three months.”

Three months.

Which meant she had been there even before I ran.

When that tiny white dot appeared on the monitor, when that quick steady heartbeat filled the room, I cried again. But not like the night on the bedroom floor. There was fear, yes. Panic, of course. But also… something warm, spreading slowly.

“I only have you, huh?” I whispered to the screen.

Six years later, that tiny white dot was now sprinting across the beach, screaming at seagulls.

“I want to build a castle with a private pool.” Hazel stabbed her shovel into the sand with fiery determination. “And a garage for race cars. And a helipad.”

“Ambitious architect,” I said as I sat on the beach towel and traced out a base line with my finger. “Do you want a castle or a full resort complex?”

“Both. I’m the queen,” Hazel declared.

Of course you are, little De Cruz royalty.

“Kayla!” Hazel twisted around and shouted toward the babysitter sitting under the umbrella with a book. “You can stay in the guest house of my castle!”

“Wow, thanks for the promotion,” Kayla answered without looking up.

I began shaping the sand walls with Hazel. Her tiny hands moved fast, sand clinging to her arms, cheeks flushed under the sun. Hazel wasn’t a neat kid. She was loud, stubborn, and had no problem bossing around adults three times her age. If I didn’t know better, I’d call it karma.

“I want a window here.” Hazel poked the top of a mound. “So if I get bored, I can look at the ocean.”

“If you’re bored, you can go to college,” I muttered.

Hazel scrunched her nose. “College is later. I want to get married first.”

My shovel froze. “Excuse me?”

“Kayla said so.” Hazel puffed up proudly. “She said some people get married first and go back to school.”

I shot Kayla a sharp look. Kayla pretended she hadn’t heard, flipping a page in her book.

“She’s joking,” I said. “You go to college first, then maybe get married. Or never get married. That’s an option too.”

Hazel frowned. “You don’t want me to get married, Mommy?”

I stopped carving the sand wall. Ocean water touched my toes, cool and steady. “That’s not it, sweetheart.” I looked at the little face I had raised alone in a foreign city. “If you get married someday, I only want one thing.”

“What?”

“That the person you choose doesn’t make you forget who you are.”

Hazel rolled her eyes. That tiny gesture was far too familiar. “I’m Hazel. Everyone knows. I’m awesome.”

I laughed. The ache in my chest loosened a little.

“I hear deep thoughts happening,” Kayla said as she walked over and pushed the umbrella deeper into the sand. “Are we doing heavy topics this early?”

“Hazel just announced she wants to get married before college,” I reported.

Kayla looked at Hazel. “To the blond surfer?”

Hazel nodded confidently. “Or to a chef. So I get free food.”

Okay, that was my logic.

Kayla sat beside me, facing the ocean for a moment. “Javier texted earlier. He asked how you’re doing.”

I pulled my phone from my pocket. One unread chat.

JAVI: [You and Hazel doing good? Eat something. Say hi to the little troublemaker.]

Above it was a message Marvel sent weeks ago.

MARVEL: [Fast gossip: He married her. She’s pregnant too. If you want details, I can—]

I never replied. Marvel sent three dots after. Then stopped.

I didn’t ask for details. Marvel knew the line.

He married Elena. Of course he did. Logical. Same company, same betrayal, same package.

I deleted the notification without opening it.

I didn’t need any more pictures in my head.

“Bad news?” Kayla asked.

“Family news.” I slipped the phone back into my pocket. “You know how they are. Dramatic but entertaining.”

Kayla glanced toward Hazel, who was now creeping up on the neighbor’s dog at the far end of the beach. “When’s the rest of your family visiting?”

“Papa and Mama are coming in the summer,” I said. “Javier might come earlier. He misses Hazel. Or he misses checking if I’m still alive.”

Kayla nodded, lips curving slightly. “It’s good you’re not… alone here.”

I shrugged. “I have you. I have Hazel. I have a mortgage that won’t die. Plenty of company.”

Hazel sprinted back, her unicorn float bouncing at her waist. “Mama! The dog likes me!” She stopped right in front of me, breathless, cheeks even redder. “He’s a boy. His name is Bruno. He’s in love with me.”

“Sure,” I muttered. “Men and their questionable taste.”

Hazel wrapped her arms around my waist, her head pressing against my stomach. The touch grounded me.

Six years ago, I left that city with empty hands, an empty chest, and an empty future.

Now my hands were full of sand, my schedule packed with deadlines, my house covered in crayon art.

My heart… maybe not full. But not hollow the way it used to be.

Someone’s face still appeared occasionally in mirrors, in Hazel’s smile, in the way she lifted an eyebrow when she disagreed.

His name wasn’t one I said anymore. Not one I searched for. He lived only in my daughter’s DNA now, small and structured, locked there.

If I’d learned anything in the last six years, my entire life now came down to two things: the lines on my screen and the blue eyed kid calling me Mommy or Mama.

The man who almost became my husband? He lived in my daughter’s features.

Beyond that, he had been gone from my life for a long time.