Daniel stopped breathing.
The resemblance was devastating. The boy had his eyes, his mouth, his stubborn forehead. It was like looking at a version of himself that had been forced to grow under harsher weather.
The girl studied him with sharp distrust. The youngest only looked curious.
“Go to your rooms,” Valentina said.
“Who is he?” the girl asked.
“Someone from a long time ago.”
The oldest boy did not move right away. He kept staring at Daniel the way a person stares at an answer they have feared their whole life.
Then he stood and walked toward the back of the house with his siblings.
Valentina sat in a chair across from the couch but did not invite Daniel to sit. He sat anyway because his knees felt weak.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I came for work. I drove through the neighborhood. I saw you. I saw the children.”
“And suddenly you remembered we exist.”
He lowered his eyes. “Yes.”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “At least that part is honest.”
He looked up. “I want to help.”
Her expression changed then—not softened, but sharpened. “Help?”
“I know I can’t change the past.”
“No, you can’t.”
“But I can do something now. For them. For you.”
“For me?” she repeated. “You left me pregnant, Daniel. Twice, apparently.” Her voice cracked on the last word, not from weakness but from restraint. “You left me to bury my mother, work two jobs, raise children who asked every year why their father never came. And now you want to help?”
He swallowed. “The girl… is she mine?”
“Yes.”
The word hit with the force of a slap.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“And the little boy?”
“No.”
He nodded once, because anything more would have been an intrusion.
“How old is he?”
“Ten.”
“And his father?”
