Chapter 7 - Roots and Concrete
The soil in the Greenwich backyard was heavy, damp, and smelled of earth and old leaves.
By the following week, the manicured lawn that Regina and Patricia had obsessively guarded against a single stray dandelion was transformed into a chaotic, joyful construction site of life. Four small wooden planter boxes sat arranged in a square near the southern fence. Alejandro had traded his custom Italian leather shoes for a pair of muddy rubber boots, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forearms smeared with dark dirt.
“Dad! Look! I found a worm!” Mateo shouted, holding up a wriggling pink earthworm on a plastic garden trowel with wild enthusiasm.
“That’s an excellent worker, Mateo,” Alejandro laughed, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Put him gently in the tomato bed. He’s going to help our plants grow strong.”
Marisol sat on a wooden garden bench nearby, wearing a simple cotton sun-dress instead of her blue uniform, her hands resting in her lap as she watched the scene unfold. A gentle breeze rustled the maple trees above them.
For the first time in five years, the mansion didn't feel like a museum of lost time. It felt alive.
Since Regina and Patricia’s abrupt departure, the transition hadn't been without friction. Phone calls from high-society acquaintances, bewildered board members, and outraged distant relatives had flooded Alejandro’s private line during the first few days. They wanted explanations. They wanted to know why the matriarchs had been exiled to Palm Beach and why the estate was suddenly operating under a completely new paradigm.
Alejandro had answered every inquiry with a single, unyielding sentence: “The estate is under new management, and my family’s well-being is no longer negotiable.”
He hadn't returned to Chicago. Instead, he had restructured the logistics division remotely, appointing a trusted, ethical executive committee to handle daily operations while he worked from the newly converted home office overlooking the garden.
He was learning the rhythms of his sons. He knew that Nicholas needed a soft story read twice before he could fall asleep without fearing the thunder. He knew that Emiliano hated the crusts on his toast and that Leonardo cried when his toy cars crashed too hard.
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He was no longer just the provider who paid the bills from afar. He was their father.
And Marisol was the heart that held them all together.
