Mateo turned toward the sound, startled, unsure how to respond.
“I’ll sit with you,” the voice declared confidently.
Another scrape.
Little legs climbing.
A proud exhale.
“Okay. I’m up.”
Five simple words.
Yet they cracked open a silence that had hardened around his heart for seven long years.
“Who… are you?” Mateo asked softly.
“I’m Lily,” she said proudly. “I’m two. And you?”
“Fifty-one.”
“Wow. That’s very old.”
Then, gently:
“But that’s okay. My grandpa’s old and I love him.”
Before Mateo could reply, hurried footsteps echoed down the hall.
“Lily! Where did you—oh—”
The woman stopped abruptly.
Her daughter was seated beside the blind billionaire.
Small hands resting on the table.
Perfectly comfortable.
“I’m so sorry, Dr. Alvarez,” the woman rushed out. “I was cleaning and she slipped away—Lily, you need to get down right now—”
“No,” Lily said firmly, folding her arms. “I’m having dinner with him.”
“Lily, please—”
“Mommy,” she said seriously, “he’s alone. Nobody should eat alone. That’s sad.”
The words struck Mateo harder than any boardroom failure.
Harder than pity.
Harder than loss.