And before you can say a word, before you can deliver the line you’ve been polishing for half a decade, she stares at you and whispers, “Mateo has your eyes.”
You feel the world tilt.
For a second, you honestly think you misheard her. Your mind snatches at easier explanations, tries to make sense of the sentence some other way. Maybe Mateo is a nephew. Maybe a cousin. Maybe a joke so cruel and strange your brain refuses to unpack it. But then a little boy appears behind her, peeking from the hallway with one hand wrapped around the edge of the wall.
He can’t be more than four.
He has a serious little face, cautious and curious all at once, like a child who has already learned adults can bring weather into a room. His hair is dark. His frame is small. But none of that is what knocks the air out of your chest. It’s the eyes. God help you, it’s the eyes. The exact shade, the exact shape, the same slight downward tilt at the outer corners that your mother used to call thoughtful even when you were just angry.
You forget every rehearsed word.
