When he opened the door, he found a woman around thirty, dark hair tied back, wearing simple jeans and a white blouse, a worn canvas backpack over her shoulder.
“Good morning. I’m Lucía Herrera.”
“You’re early.”
“The bus came sooner than expected. I preferred waiting here.”
Honest.
Inside, Sebastián reviewed her references — solid experience, good recommendations.
“Why did you leave your last position?”
“The family relocated to Chicago. They offered for me to go with them, but my mother is ill. I need to stay.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Heart failure,” she answered calmly.
He nodded.
“My son lost his mother eight months ago. He’s quiet.”
Lucía’s eyes softened.
“Understood.”
He handed her a printed list.
“Strict schedule. Limited television. No tablets. Structured activities. Professional boundaries. He’s your responsibility — not your friend.”
She read carefully.
“May I ask something?” she said.
“Yes.”
“If he needs comfort… may I hug him?”
The question unsettled him.
“I suppose.”
“Children sometimes need affection without a reason,” she said gently.
“Remember,” Sebastián replied coldly, “you’re not here to replace his mother.”