That, somehow, unsettles you even more.
You had imagined many versions of Sofía’s life after you. In most of them, Diego Navarro had given her everything she thought you couldn’t. A bigger home. Better clothes. A cleaner future. You pictured her laughing beside infinity pools and tinted windows, wearing the kind of ease that only money can buy. But this house doesn’t belong to fantasy. It belongs to a woman holding things together one day at a time.
Sofía turns to the little boy. “Mateo, honey, why don’t you go finish your drawing in your room?”
He keeps looking at you. “Who is he?”
The question slices cleaner than anything else could have.
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