Every day, Fernando demanded “sessions.” He would sit the boy in front of him and ask him to pray, to lay hands on his legs, to repeat the miracle. Sergio, with inexhaustible patience, complied, but he always reminded him in his soft voice: “Mister, I don’t do anything. It’s God who decides.” Fernando didn’t listen. He wanted results. And the results came: bit by bit, sensitivity returned, and muscles began to respond to basic stimuli. Fernando was coming back to life.
However, Fernando’s joy was poison to others.
Adriana, his wife, and Juan, his younger brother and business partner, watched with growing alarm. To them, a Fernando in a wheelchair was manageable—a man who would eventually hand over the empire and perhaps die young. A Fernando who was healing, and worse, a Fernando emotionally bonded to “the maid and her son,” was a direct threat to their inheritance.
“He’s lost his mind,” Adriana whispered, pacing the lounge with a glass of wine. “He thinks that brat is a saint. If he keeps this up, he’ll change the will. Can you imagine? Leaving everything to the cleaning lady?”