Khaled Hosseini. And echo is flying through the mountains (№ 386423)

You turned out good.
I'm proud of you, Marcos.
I'm fifty-five. I waited all my life for these words. Is it too late? Us with her? Maybe we have spent too long too much? But somewhere inside I think it's better to leave things as they are, to pretend that we don't know how not suited to each other. Not so much pain. Maybe even better than this belated gift. This fragile, shivering a glimpse of how it could be between us. From this is born only regret, I tell myself, and that it is good? Nothing it will bring. Lost irretrievably.
And yet, when mom says:
- Isn't it beautiful, Markos? - and I say to her:
- Yes, mother. Beautiful, something in me begins to swing open, and I take mother's hand.