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“He was smaller when he was born.”
Rodrigo closes his eyes.
“I know.”
“No,” you say quietly. “You don’t.”
He looks at you.
You do not soften.
“You missed the hospital. You missed the first cry. You missed the first night when he wouldn’t latch and I thought I was failing him. You missed the jaundice check. You missed the moment I sat on the bathroom floor crying because I hadn’t slept in two days.”
Rodrigo’s eyes shine.
“I’m sorry.”
You had imagined those words so many times.
They arrive weakly.
Late.
Still, they arrive.
You nod once.
“Be sorry by being consistent.”
That becomes the rule.
Consistency.
Not flowers.
Not apologies.
Not dramatic speeches.
Diapers.
Court dates.
Pediatrician visits.
On-time arrivals.
No public lies.
No bringing girlfriends to meetings where your baby’s future is being negotiated.
Renata disappears from Rodrigo’s life within weeks.
You hear she takes a job in Boston, then later starts her own communications firm. She sends one final email through David with all the records she promised. She never asks for forgiveness.
You respect that.
Rodrigo struggles.
Of course he does.
Men who are used to controlling rooms often panic when babies control schedules.
At first, he arrives with expensive gifts Mateo cannot use. Cashmere blankets. Designer baby shoes. A silver rattle engraved with the Castellan crest.
You send most of it back.
“He needs burp cloths,” you tell him. “And formula. And for you to learn how to change a diaper without looking betrayed.”
He almost smiles.
Almost.
One afternoon, during a supervised visit, Mateo spits up all over Rodrigo’s sweater.
Rodrigo freezes.