Six years ago, I cut off my sister Paloma and my husband Marco after their eight-month affair. I moved out, changed my number, and rebuilt my life. Recently, Paloma called from unknown numbers, yelling that I “ruined her life.” I blocked her, but memories resurfaced. A week later, a letter arrived: she was eight months pregnant, abandoned by Marco. She wrote bitterly, “Now you know how it feels.”

My mom called soon after—Paloma was hospitalized after early labor complications. The baby, Liana, survived; Paloma nearly didn’t. I visited, not for her but for Liana. Paloma looked worn, but her fire remained. Slowly, I started visiting weekly, bringing essentials. When Liana had a fever, I rushed to help in the ER. Paloma sobbed, apologizing repeatedly.

I didn’t forgive her instantly, but I saw her change. Marco had left her at four months pregnant, moving to Austin. Watching Paloma struggle as a single mom softened me. We began rebuilding—cooking together, laughing over small things. She got a job; I babysat Liana. One night, she thanked me for not giving up on her.

Liana, now two, calls me “Auntie M.” Helping Paloma healed me, too, softening my guarded heart. A framed photo of us with Liana reads: “Thank you for not letting me drown.” Redemption is messy, but possible.