—Right away.
She didn’t say “I’m sorry” or “what a shame.” That, Matthew realized, made the silence feel less like punishment.
Luna looked back down at her coloring sheet.
—Daddy…
—Yes, honey?
—Can we stay a little while? My stomach doesn’t hurt anymore.
Matthew knew she wasn’t talking about food. Her other stomach ached—the one of emotions a five-year-old cannot yet name. He stroked her blonde hair, a soft inheritance from her mother, and nodded.
—We stayed.
Luna picked up the pink crayon again, her fingers finally relaxed.
Sofia returned with the drink, the lemonade, and a small plate of warm bread.
“This is on the house,” she said, placing it before Luna. “The chef says the macaroni takes a little while, and he doesn’t want a distinguished customer waiting hungry.”
Luna regarded her with earnest seriousness.
—Thank you.
—Thank you for not leaving me, and for letting me have bread while I wait.
Luna giggled softly, shy but real.
Matthew felt something break inside—not pain, but relief.
When Sofia left, Luna tore off a piece of bread and offered it to him.
—Daddy, here. You’re sad too.
Matthew accepted it as if it were medicine.
—Thanks, my love.
She watched him for a moment.
—The ugly lady didn’t want me here, did she?
His eyes burned.
—It wasn’t because of you.
—Well… maybe a little bit.
Children’s honesty always hits where it hurts most. Mateo put the glass down on the table just before it slipped from his hand.
—Listen carefully, Luna. Some people don’t understand certain things. Some think that loving someone has to be simple, without complications, without history, without responsibilities. But you’re not a complication. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Luna lowered her gaze.
—But sometimes I ruin your dates.
The pang in Mateo’s chest was so deep he couldn’t speak for a moment.
He leaned down to meet her at eye level.
—No. Never say that. Do you hear me? You don’t ruin anything. The right person will never make you feel that way. Never.
Luna hesitated, trying to believe him, then nodded slowly.
The macaroni arrived steaming, golden cheese melting on top, with a couple of carrot slices forming a smile. Sofia placed the plate in front of the little girl with amused solemnity.
—The kitchen worked hard on this masterpiece.
—It’s beautiful —said Luna.
—And it tastes even better than it looks, which is saying something.
Mateo ordered the first thing he could find on the unread menu. He wasn’t hungry, but he suddenly understood that leaving defeated would make the night linger in his daughter’s memory as a disappointment. Staying, eating, breathing, carrying on—that too was a way of protecting her.
During dinner, Sofia moved quietly around them, never intrusive. She brought Luna an extra napkin when sauce spilled, swapped Camila’s untouched wine glass for Mateo’s mineral water, and once left a purple crayon on the table with a wink: “Every serious artist needs variety.”
Luna drew between bites. First a table. Then three people. One in a blue dress. Another in a black shirt. And a small one with a huge smile. Mateo watched her.
—Who are they?
—You, me… and the bread lady.
He smiled.
—Ah.
—She has a pretty face, she doesn’t scream.
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