Behind him stood Mrs. García, the housekeeper of twenty years. Her voice, usually steady, trembled.
“Sir… little Mateo is getting worse. Today he bit the gardener. Yesterday, he tried to bite the pediatrician.”
Diego closed his eyes briefly, burning with lack of sleep and guilt. The word institution had been circling his thoughts for weeks—a sin he hated himself for considering. His wife Elena had died in an accident when Mateo was six months old. Since then, the child had changed—or perhaps the world had simply grown too big and too cold.
“Where is he?” Diego asked hoarsely.
“In his room, sir. He’s crying… and when someone gets close—”
Mrs. García instinctively touched the small bandage on her wrist.
Diego climbed the marble stairs as though heading toward a certain defeat. He paused outside the nursery door, hand on the knob, breathing deeply before opening it.
Toys were scattered across the floor, some broken. Books lay everywhere. And Mateo stood inside his crib, gripping the bars like a prisoner—face flushed, tears shining on his cheeks. When he saw his father, his cries grew louder, more desperate. He reached out… then lunged forward, mouth open, trying to bite.