He did not sit down.
He did not shout.
He folded the note once, then twice, tucked it into his shirt pocket, and walked to the cribs.
Valeria was crying the loudest. Camila had her little fists balled tight. Sofía was red-faced and trembling with the kind of outrage only a hungry infant can summon. He lifted all three one by one, awkwardly at first, because love is immediate but technique takes practice.
And then, holding them against his chest while rain hammered the roof like thrown pebbles, he whispered the sentence that would define the next thirty years of his life.
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