They adopted a child who had already been returned by three families because “it was too difficult.” They all warned them that they were making a mistake. Years later, when they lost everything, that same child was the only one who decided to stay.

They told me that this child was not going to last.

The social worker said it in a low voice, as if it hurt less, as she arranged a folder full of papers handled by too many hands. Outside, the midday sun fell on the DIF courtyard and the noise of cars mixed with the distant cry of a tamale vendor.

“There are already three families,” he added. They all returned it.

My husband, Raul, frowned.

“Why?”

The woman hesitated for a moment before answering.

“They say it’s… difficult. He doesn’t talk much. It does not obey the principle. He does not allow himself to be hugged. He doesn’t cry when he should. It’s like he’s always waiting to be dropped again.

I looked at the boy sitting in a plastic chair across the room. His hands were on his knees, very straight, as if someone had taught him to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t play. He didn’t ask. I wasn’t looking at anything in particular.

I just waited.

When he looked up and our eyes met, he didn’t smile.

But he didn’t look away either.

And something inside me broke.

They told us to think about it.

That we still had time to choose another child.

That there were many more “adaptable”.

That we did not complicate our lives.

Even my sister, who had always been the most sentimental of the family, called me that night.

“Look, Rosa…” you are no longer young. Why get involved in something like that? Then those children grow up with resentments.

I remember looking at the kitchen as we talked. It was a small kitchen, with worn tiles and a table for four that we almost never used complete.

Too quiet.

Too neat.

Too empty.

“Precisely for that reason,” I answered. Because no one wants it.

Raul said nothing that night. He just sat next to me on the bed, sighed, and took my hand.

“Are you sure?”

“No,” I said. But I know that if we leave it there, someone else is going to leave it too.

And that was it.

That’s how Mateo came to our house.

The first few months were like living with a guest.

Not with a child.

Mateo did not touch anything without asking permission.

He didn’t break anything.

He didn’t throw tantrums.

He didn’t get sick.

He didn’t ask for candy.