“You need one too.”
“I have sweaters.”
You stared at him.
He smiled, and in that smile you saw all the nights you had chosen kindness when bitterness would have been easier.
Maybe love really had won something.
When Mateo was thirteen, Andrés called.
After thirteen years.
You were washing dishes when the unknown number appeared. You almost ignored it, but something made you answer.
“Hello?”
There was a pause.
Then a voice you had spent years forgetting said, “Lucía?”
Your hand tightened around the phone.
Andrés sounded older, but not humble.
Never humble.
“What do you want?” you asked.
He sighed, as if you were already being difficult.
“I heard Mateo is doing well.”
You looked toward the living room, where Mateo was studying with headphones on.
“He is.”
“I’d like to see him.”
The glass in your hand slipped into the sink and cracked.
You stared at it.
Thirteen years of silence, and now he wanted access like he had misplaced a key.
“Why?”
“He’s my son.”
You almost laughed.
“No. He is your child. Being a father requires presence.”
Andrés grew irritated.
“Don’t start with that. I sent money.”
“For three months.”
“I was young.”
“You were forty-three.”
Silence.
Then he said the thing that told you everything.
“Listen, I’m trying to clean up my image. People ask why I never mention my son. It looks bad.”
There it was.
Not regret.
Not love.
Public relations.
You leaned against the counter and closed your eyes.
“Do not call again unless Mateo asks for you.”
Andrés lowered his voice.
“You can’t keep my son from me.”
You opened your eyes.
“I didn’t. You left him from yourself.”
Then you hung up.
That night, you told Mateo.
He listened without expression.
When you finished, he asked, “Did he ask what I like?”
You swallowed.
“No.”
“Did he ask if I’m happy?”
“No.”
“Did he say sorry?”
You couldn’t answer.
Mateo nodded.
“Then I don’t need to see him.”
You waited.
“Are you sure?”
He looked at you with eyes too old for thirteen.
“I wanted a father. Not an audience.”
You had never been prouder of him.
Still, Andrés did not disappear completely after that.
He sent birthday messages that sounded copied from the internet. He liked photos of Mateo that relatives posted. He tried to follow your son online, but Mateo declined the request.
Then, suddenly, Andrés began mentioning “my brilliant son” in public.
He posted vague statements about fatherhood.
He told old acquaintances that divorce had “complicated things” but that he had always loved Mateo from a distance.
From a distance.
As if neglect were a noble hilltop.
You wanted to scream.
Instead, you saved screenshots.
Not because you wanted revenge.
Because life had taught you that men like Andrés rewrite history the moment no one guards the truth.
When Mateo was fifteen, the letter arrived.
It came from one of the most prestigious academic programs in the country, a selective preparatory academy connected to an international university track. Mateo had applied without telling you, using scholarship essays he wrote after you fell asleep.
You found him standing frozen by the mailbox, envelope in his hand.
“What is it?” you asked.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
You took the letter gently.
Accepted.
Full scholarship.
Ceremony of admission scheduled for next month.
You read the words once.
Then again.
Then your knees nearly gave out.
Mateo caught you.
“Mom?”
You started laughing and crying at the same time.
“My son,” you whispered. “My son.”
