Her name was Valeria. The babies were Santi and Leo. Around her neck hung a scratched half-moon pendant, tied with a fraying thread. She held it every time one of the babies stirred, like it was the last piece of home she had left.
I canceled my meeting.
Just like that.
When we pulled up to my building, the doorman, Thomas, saw me step out with the girl and the babies wrapped in my jacket. He usually didn’t ask questions—but this time, he stepped forward.
Held the elevator.
Brought two clean blankets.
Looked at the girl like he understood something I didn’t yet.
Upstairs, the marble floors felt cold under my shoes. The microwave beeped. One of the babies started crying again.
I was digging through the kitchen for formula—anything—when the front door slammed open.
Valentina’s perfume filled the room before her voice did.
“Tell me you’re not doing this two days before our wedding.”
She didn’t look at the babies first.
She looked at the rug.
The white couch.
Then at Valeria—like she was a stain.
“This is not a shelter, Mateo.”
Valeria stepped back instantly, shielding the babies with her arms. Reflex. Learned.