Three days later, they sat on the lodge veranda, watching clouds drift across the peaks. Camila had been quiet all morning, withdrawn in a way Lívia was learning meant she was processing something difficult.
"What is it?" Lívia asked gently.
Camila stared into her coffee cup. "Helena and I... our marriage didn't end because of some dramatic betrayal. It ended because I stopped being present."
Lívia waited, knowing Camila needed space to find the words.
"I was always working, always planning the next career move. Helena wanted connection—simple things like dinners together, conversations that weren't about my cases. I thought I was providing by succeeding." Camila shook her head. "By the time I realized what I was losing, it was too late."
"She asked for the divorce?"
"After two years of trying." Camila's voice dropped. "The night she left, she said, 'I love you, but I don't know you anymore.' That's the worst kind of ending, don't you think? When someone still loves you but can't stay?"
Lívia reached across the table, covering Camila's hand with hers. "I'm sorry."
"The worst part is... I understood." Camila finally met her eyes. "I'd become someone I didn't recognize either. That's why I come here every year. To remember who I was before I became that person."
Lívia squeezed her hand. "And are you remembering?"
"With you?" Camila's fingers intertwined with hers. "More than I have in years."