Daniel is filing to force the sale of the house.
Your knees go weak. Your parents are struggling. You have no job since Maximiliano’s complications started. The little savings you had are ashes.
You sit at your kitchen table staring at the letter until the words blur.
Then your phone buzzes.
A message from Elías.
¿Vienes? Sonia está llorando.
You stare at the screen, torn between panic and the sound you can’t hear but can imagine: that thin cry like a string breaking.
You wipe your face and stand.
Because even when the world tries to crush you, a baby still needs to eat.
At Elías’s house, the moment Sonia latches, you feel your breathing slow. The crisis letter is still in your pocket like a snake, but Sonia’s tiny hands don’t care about court documents.
Elías notices your face, though.
“What happened?” he asks quietly.
You try to smile. It fails.
“El papá de mi hijo… came back,” you say, voice thick. “He wants the house.”
Elías goes still, eyes darkening.
“He left you,” he says, voice flat.
You nod.
“And now he wants to take what little I have left,” you whisper.
Elías’s jaw tightens. He looks down at Sonia asleep in your arms, then back at you.
“I’m not going to let him,” he says.
You laugh bitterly. “You can’t stop him. It’s legal.”
Elías stands and walks to the mantel, where a photo of Olivia sits. He touches the frame gently, like asking permission.
Then he turns to you.
“Olivia had savings,” he says quietly. “A life insurance policy. Not much, but enough.”
Your stomach flips. “No,” you say immediately. “No. That’s for Sonia.”
Elías steps closer, voice firm. “It is for Sonia,” he says. “Because Sonia needs you stable. And you need a roof.”
You shake your head, tears spilling. “I can’t take from her,” you whisper.
Elías’s eyes glisten. “You’re not taking,” he says. “You’re trading. You give her milk. You give her calm. You give her something I can’t buy.”
He lowers his voice, raw now. “You brought my daughter back to me alive in a way I didn’t think was possible.”
The words knock the breath out of you.
Because you realize he said my daughter like it finally feels real in his mouth again.
You swallow hard. “I don’t want people to think—”
“I don’t care what people think,” Elías cuts in. “They didn’t sit up all night with a baby turning purple from hunger. They didn’t bury Olivia. They didn’t bury Maximiliano.”
He takes a shaky breath. “We did.”
That night, Elías calls the town doctor and a lawyer in the city. He doesn’t ask permission, he just moves like a man who finally knows what he’s fighting for.
You sit at your table at home later, listening to your mother breathe in the next room, your father’s footsteps pacing softly. You feel fear crawling up your spine.
Then you feel your phone buzz again.
A message from Elías.
No estás sola. Mañana lo arreglamos.
You stare at the words until they soak into you like warmth.
The next morning, you meet Elías at a small office in town, the kind with dusty blinds and old coffee. Daniel arrives with a smirk, dressed too well for San Jacinto, as if he wants everyone to know he’s above the place you’re trapped in.
His lawyer flips through papers with bored efficiency.
Daniel doesn’t even look at you at first. He looks at Elías.
“Oh,” Daniel says, grin widening. “So it’s true.”
Elías doesn’t flinch.
“You have no right to speak to her,” Elías says calmly.
Daniel laughs. “Protective,” he says. “Cute.”
You want to disappear. You want to scream.
But then the lawyer clears his throat.
“There is an agreement,” the lawyer says, sliding papers across. “A buyout. Full. Immediate.”
Daniel’s smirk falters.
He flips through the pages, eyes narrowing as he sees the amount.
“You’re paying me?” Daniel says, shocked.
Elías’s voice is flat. “Yes,” he replies. “You take the money. You sign away every claim. And you never come near her again.”
Daniel’s eyes gleam. Greed always shows its teeth.
“But why would you—” he starts.
Elías leans forward slightly, eyes cold. “Because I have buried enough,” he says quietly. “I won’t watch someone else bury her life too.”
Daniel signs.
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