Like he was looking at something distant.

I stayed silent.

Deep down, I already knew.

Three months later, he left.

No tears. No apology.

Just a suitcase and a simple sentence:

“I can’t live like this anymore. I need a new start.”

“With someone else?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t deny it.

I had already seen her—young, barely eighteen, smiling at a life she didn’t fully understand.

“Are you leaving your son too?” I asked.

“I’ll send money,” he replied.

That was the moment everything ended.

Not because he left.

But because he chose money over presence… over fatherhood.

The years that followed were the hardest of my life.

Raising a child alone at an age when your body is already tired requires a strength no one sees.

I worked from home—sewing, cooking, babysitting other children—while Mateo slept beside me. Some days, I ate whatever he didn’t finish. Some nights, I cried quietly so I wouldn’t wake him.

But I never spoke badly about his father.

Not because Andrés deserved kindness.

But because Mateo deserved peace.

When he asked about him, I would say:

“Your dad is far away.”