When Sofía latched, it wasn’t gentle.
It was desperate.
Pain shot through her, sharp enough to steal her breath. Then came the rush—warm, overwhelming relief.
Her eyes filled.
In her mind, she heard the ghost of her son’s cry.
Across the room, Mateo turned toward the window, shoulders rigid.
“I’m sorry,” Natalia whispered.
“For what?” he asked hoarsely.
“For… all of this.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “Just… don’t stop.”
Sofía’s swallowing slowed. Her tiny fingers gripped Natalia’s shirt like she was afraid she’d disappear.
For the first time since Isabella’s funeral, the house felt quiet.
Peaceful.
“She hasn’t slept like that,” Mateo said softly, “since the burial.”
Natalia looked down at the milk-drunk baby.
“She was hungry,” she said.
Mateo let out a broken laugh. “So was I.”
Word traveled fast in a small town.
By the third week, people had noticed Natalia walking to Mateo’s house every morning.
“She lost her baby,” someone whispered near the bakery. “Now she’s taking someone else’s husband.”
“She’s feeding his child,” another voice said, sharp with judgment. “That’s not proper.”
Natalia kept walking.
Boots steady.
Head high.
But gossip wasn’t the only thing waiting for her.