“Mateo… please…” Diego whispered, his voice breaking. “Daddy’s here.”
Mateo didn’t understand words—but he understood emotion. And Diego was overflowing with fear: fear of losing his son, fear of failing as a father, fear that his child would grow to hate him, fear that Elena’s memory would fade forever.
Diego sat in the rocking chair by the window—the same one where Elena had once nursed their baby. He remembered her simple words, spoken like a secret: “Babies are sponges. They absorb what we feel.” And the thought crushed him: Then it’s my despair he’s drinking.
Downstairs, Carmen Rodríguez was finishing the living room windows. She was twenty-four, with strong, capable hands used to carrying responsibilities far heavier than her age. She was new—only a few hours into her first day—but she already sensed something off, as if the luxury itself were tense. She’d heard the baby crying, and in the service kitchen the cook had whispered a warning:
“Best not ask, girl. That child… he’s different.”