She spooned simple yellow rice onto each plate with careful precision. It was humble food, almost poor food, standing in violent contrast to the fine china beneath it. Yet the boys watched it like treasure.
Her gloved hands—meant for scrubbing floors—now brushed crumbs from their mouths with maternal care that tightened Sebastián’s chest.
He should have shouted. He should have demanded answers. Instead, he stood frozen.
When one boy turned to laugh at his brother, the light revealed a profile that struck Sebastián like a blow—the shape of the nose, the curve of the smile, the way the child held his fork.
It was like staring into his own past.
His heart thundered. How had they entered? His home was sealed with security, guarded and monitored. And yet here they were—four small intruders sharing rice at his forbidden table.
The intimacy of it terrified him.
“You’ll grow strong,” María whispered, scraping the last grains from the pot. “And someday you’ll lead. Just never forget how to share.”
Sebastián clenched his briefcase until his knuckles whitened.
He stepped forward. His shoes creaked.
María stiffened instantly. The spoon froze. She turned, her face draining of color.
Their eyes met.