But the truth was harder to admit: he couldn’t bear seeing another woman care for his son. Every hug Mateo received felt like a reminder of the one person who should have been there.
That Monday, Sebastián adjusted his cufflinks and came downstairs. The silence in the house was heavy — no music, no laughter, just echoes.
“Mr. Rivas,” said Clara, the housekeeper. “Mateo already had breakfast. He’s upstairs playing.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, as you requested. No screens. Just toys.”
Sebastián nodded, ignoring the tightness in his chest. Independence was important. The world wasn’t gentle.
“What time is the new nanny arriving?”
“Ten. Her name is Lucía Herrera.”
Sebastián glanced at his watch. Forty minutes. Enough time to lay down the rules.
Upstairs, Mateo sat on the rug building a tall block tower.
“Morning, champ.”
“Morning, Dad.”
“We have a new nanny today. Lucía.”
Mateo simply nodded. He was used to the rotation by now.
“I need you to behave.”
“I always do.”
And he did. Too much so. Too quiet for a child his age. No tantrums. No complaints. No demands. Sometimes Sebastián wondered if that was normal — or if his son had learned to shrink himself.
At 9:30, the doorbell rang.
Sebastián frowned. Early.