And when he asked if he loved him, I would answer:
“That’s something you’ll understand one day.”
Andrés would appear occasionally—birthdays, holidays, quick photos for social media.
He brought expensive gifts but never stayed long.
Mateo would look at him with a mix of hope and confusion.
And it hurt.
Because nothing is sadder than a child waiting for love from someone who only knows how to visit.
As the years passed, Mateo grew into someone extraordinary.
Quiet. Thoughtful. Deeply observant.
At ten years old, he once hugged me from behind while I was checking bills.
“Mom, are you tired?” he asked.
“A little,” I smiled.
“When I grow up, I’ll make sure you can rest.”
I laughed through tears.
“You don’t have to save me.”
“I want you to be proud,” he said softly.
I already was.
Mateo worked hard, not because I pushed him—but because he had a purpose.
He wanted to enter one of the country’s most prestigious institutions.
Not for fame.
But to prove something:
“That your story doesn’t begin where someone leaves you.”
At fifteen, he was accepted.
That day, I wore my simple blue dress, carefully ironed. Mateo stood beside me in a dark suit, taller and more confident than ever.
“You look beautiful, Mom,” he said.
“You too,” I replied.
