Three weeks earlier, she had walked out of the hospital in San Jacinto de la Sierra with empty arms and milk that refused to dry. The doctors had used gentle voices. Complications. No heartbeat. These things happen.
But her body didn’t care about medical language.
It kept producing milk.
And across town, a newborn was starving.
The door opened slowly.
Mateo Alvarez stood there, unshaven, hollow-eyed, a baby crying somewhere behind him like a siren that wouldn’t shut off.
“Natalia?” he asked, confused. “Is everything okay?”
She swallowed. “No,” she said honestly. “But… I heard Sofía won’t take formula.”
Mateo’s jaw tightened. “I’ve tried everything. She won’t keep it down.”
The baby’s cry sharpened.
Natalia felt it in her bones.
“I have milk,” she whispered.
The words hung between them.
Mateo froze.
“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “I can’t ask you to—”
“You didn’t,” she cut in. “I’m offering.”
Another wail from inside.
He stepped aside.
The house still smelled like funeral flowers.
A framed photo of Mateo’s late wife, Isabella Alvarez, sat on the mantel, smiling at a world she no longer belonged to.
Natalia sat on the couch. Her hands shook as she unbuttoned her blouse.