Mateo didn’t understand words—but he understood emotion. And Diego was overflowing with fear: fear of losing his son, fear of failing as a father, fear that his child would grow to hate him, fear that Elena’s memory would fade forever.
Diego sat in the rocking chair by the window—the same one where Elena had once nursed their baby. He remembered her simple words, spoken like a secret: “Babies are sponges. They absorb what we feel.” And the thought crushed him: Then it’s my despair he’s drinking.
Downstairs, Carmen Rodríguez was finishing the living room windows. She was twenty-four, with strong, capable hands used to carrying responsibilities far heavier than her age. She was new—only a few hours into her first day—but she already sensed something off, as if the luxury itself were tense. She’d heard the baby crying, and in the service kitchen the cook had whispered a warning:
“Best not ask, girl. That child… he’s different.”
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?”
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…”