Carmen had grown up in a working-class neighborhood in Madrid, the eldest of four siblings. She’d been caring for children since she was twelve. She knew something no certificate taught: a child’s sadness always finds a way out—even before the child can speak.
When she heard a dull thud upstairs, followed by an eerie silence, her chest tightened. She climbed the stairs with her cleaning cart, slowly, as if the house itself might scold her. Mrs. García had warned her to avoid the baby’s room—but Carmen approached anyway. Not from curiosity, but instinct.
The door was ajar. Carmen peeked inside—and froze.
Mateo was out of his crib, sitting on the floor amid fallen books. His curly hair clung to his sweaty forehead. His eyes were swollen. But what struck her most wasn’t the crying—it was his expression.
It wasn’t anger.
It was loneliness.
Carmen stepped inside quietly.
“Hello, little one…” she whispered gently. “What are you doing there all alone?”