The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,45

the other side as the same people we were when it began.

“I don’t know,” I admit, loath to lie to her. “Somewhere in the country, I imagine. Although, I suppose he could be anywhere.”

“I miss him so much,” she whispers.

I was never particularly close to my father. What little time was spent at home was dedicated to raising my brother Arturo, to ensuring that he was fit to take over the family legacy. He had little use for me as a girl, leaving me instead to my mother’s care.

Mateo’s relationship with Isabella has been different from the beginning, a fact I’m eternally grateful for. He was the one who set her upon the back of a horse for the first time when she couldn’t yet walk, who beamed and cheered her on when she took her first steps, and she loved nothing more than running after him as he worked on our farm, helping with the care and feeding of the horses, listening to his stories about growing up in the country. My childhood was so different and staid in comparison, that the joy and adventure that infused hers before our world fell apart always filled me with immense pride that I had set my daughter on a different course than the one I chafed against. She will be able to love freely one day, to follow her heart rather than her family’s expectations. I hope she will be able to pursue her interests, her passions without being denied the same opportunities afforded to a man.

I fight for a new Cuba for myself, but also for my daughter, for her children, for all of us who deserve better than what we have been given.

“Do you think he misses us?” Isabella asks.

I’m not quite sure how to convey the depth of a parent’s love to her, to put into words the pain and longing I know with certainty Mateo feels for his family, and even as I begin to, a wave of emotion takes hold and so I seize on the happy memories rather than lingering over the stab of pain in my breast.

“I know he misses us. Do you know what he said when you were born?”

Isabella shakes her head.

“I was lying in bed just after having you. I was so tired, and so full of love for you, and he took you from me for the first time, bundled you up in his arms, and looked down at your beautiful little face. And I saw the emotion come over his expression, it just swept across him, and I watched the moment when he fell in love with you. He reached out and he touched your cheek, and he had this look of wonder in his eyes, just absolutely beaming with joy. And then he turned to me and said he’d never seen anything so extraordinary in his life.”

Tears threaten again, but this time it is the promise of that memory that fills me, the knowledge that once we carved out an immense amount of happiness despite the troubled circumstances surrounding us, and the hope and surety that one day we will do so again.

“I know without a doubt in my mind, that wherever your father is at this moment, he is thinking about you and missing you desperately, and doing everything in his power to fight his way back to us. I promise you that. So we must do everything we can to be strong, to survive this.

“When you’re sad, or when you miss your father, think of those happy moments we spent, think of how much we love each other, and know that no one can take that away from you. Whatever the Spanish do to us, however difficult things become, we must always keep a part of ourselves safe, filled with hope. We must keep them from destroying our spirit. That is how we will win this war.”

“I miss him,” she whispers, tears swimming in her eyes.

I wrap my arms around her, enfolding her in a tight hug.

“I know you do. I miss him, too. I know how hard this has been for you. How much you have lost in such a short time. I am so sorry for it. But know this—there will come a better time than this moment we are living. A time when we are all together, when there is food to be had, when we are happy and healthy, and when we are free. We fight for that moment, we sacrifice for