With the help of a state prosecutor moved by our story, the foreclosure on our house was halted, tied up in the fraud investigation against Carlos.
A month later, the tin shed in the backyard was empty. My uncle Ramiro finally moved into the house, taking the master bedroom. He still walked fast, and he still wore worn-out shoes, but he no longer lowered his head when he walked down the street.
We sat on the front porch one evening, watching the sunset over the neighborhood. I looked down at the new identification papers in my lap. My name was legally changed.
“It’s going to take some time to get used to it,” I said quietly, looking at him.
My uncle smiled, a real, genuine smile that reached his eyes for the first time since I had known him. He reached over and placed a heavy, calloused hand on my shoulder.
“You don’t have to change who you are, Diego,” he said softly. “You just finally know who you belong to.”
