“Do you know what it’s like… to grow up without knowing where you come from? Without knowing why you were left behind? Without knowing if anyone still thinks about you?”
His tone remained calm.
But every word carried years of quiet loneliness.
Elea was openly crying now.
“I have no excuse.”
Roberto placed a hand on her shoulder.
Miguel looked at the little boy.
“He…” he said softly, gesturing toward him, “…has never felt that.”
Elea shook her head.
“No.”
“Because you chose differently this time?”
“Yes… because I couldn’t make the same mistake again.”
Miguel’s gaze dropped to the table, distant and unfocused.
Then, almost in a whisper, he said:
“I… never had that chance.”
Silence returned.
But this time…
it wasn’t empty.
It carried everything that couldn’t be repaired.
And everything that might still be.
The little boy stepped closer, hesitantly.
“Mom… what is it?”
Elea hesitated.
Then she looked at Miguel.
For a long moment.
As if she were asking for permission.
Miguel sensed the question before she could even say it.
And for the first time…
he felt the urge to run.
“I…” he said quietly… “he’s someone important.”
The boy frowned.
“Like Dad?”
Roberto gave a faint smile.
“Different.”
Miguel let out a small, almost imperceptible smile.
“My name is Miguel,” he said.
The child nodded.
“I’m Lucas.”
A connection.
Fragile.
But real.
The waiter passed by and set down a cup of coffee.
Life continued around them.
As if nothing had happened.
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