“He had the baby look into Down syndrome before you knew it,” Carla said.

My mother, who at first cried with pure fright when I told her everything, carried Matías as if he were a prince.

Marcos arrived late.

But it came.

He brought a gift and a different face. Not good. Not enough. Different. He sat far away, like someone who still doesn’t know how to enter a place where he no longer commands.

Matías was in the grass, trying to crawl towards a balloon.

Suddenly he advanced.

A crooked move.

Clumsy.

Perfect.

We all screamed like crazy.

Carla cried. So do I. Sofi jumped. Emiliano said that he was almost running, although he had barely crawled half a meter.

Marcos stared.

For the first time I saw no disgust, fear, or calculation.

I saw shame.

Maybe love.

I don’t know.

I no longer build castles with crumbs.

Carla sat next to me while Matías bit a bow as a gift.

“Can you imagine if you had never written to me?” He asked me.

I looked at my son.

Then to her.

“Yes. It scares me.

Carla took a deep breath.

“Me too.

We weren’t movie friends. We were not saints. We had cried, screamed, suspected each other. We had had days of not answering each other because it hurt too much. But there we were, two women who must have been enemies, sitting on a blanket, taking care of the same child from the lies of the same man.

Matías laughed.

He had shoe polish on his nose.

Carla wiped it with a napkin.

“Oh, my beautiful boy,” he said.

I smiled.