“Mom… he was in your tummy with me,” said Mateo,
with a certainty that didn’t fit in his little five-year-old body,
pointing towards the fountain in the main square of Cuernavaca.
Daniela Morales felt like the air was getting stuck in her chest.
She held her son’s little hand tightly,
as if the world could snatch it away,
and followed the direction of that small finger.
There, among balloon vendors
and the murmur of pigeons,
a barefoot child offered sweets in a cardboard box.
She was wearing a stained t-shirt,
ripped shorts,
and her skin was tanned from the sun…
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