Mateo looked at her. A long, silent moment passed. Carmen crouched at a safe distance, the way one approaches a frightened animal. She didn’t invade. She didn’t demand. She began picking up books, speaking softly as if sharing a secret with the air.
“Look at this one… a yellow duck. Do you like ducks?”
To her surprise, the boy slowly reached for the book, testing the world. Carmen carefully moved it closer.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I used to read one like this to my brother when he was a baby…”
Without planning it, Carmen began to tell the story—changing her voice for the duck, using gentle gestures, turning the tale into a small refuge. Mateo’s breathing slowed. His shoulders relaxed. Carmen sat on the floor and continued, inching closer only when he allowed it.
“And the little duck… searched everywhere for his mommy…” she said softly.
At the word mommy, fresh tears filled Mateo’s eyes—but these weren’t tantrum tears. They were old ones, stored deep inside. Carmen understood instantly.
He wasn’t biting out of cruelty.
He was biting out of fear.
He was pushing abandonment away before it could bite him first.
Carmen slowly opened her arms.