There they were.
Miguel, Paola, and Mateo, smiling on the deck of a cruise ship. Paola was wearing enormous sunglasses and holding a glass. Miguel was hugging Mateo as if the world didn’t exist beyond the three of them.
The post read:
“Finally alone with our true prince. Mateo deserves peace, without drama or interruptions.”
I read that sentence three times.
Our true prince.
My phone vibrated.
It was Miguel.
“Dad, Paola told me Sofía called you. Don’t exaggerate. She always plays the victim when Mateo gets medical attention. Give him the syrup and don’t make a scene. This trip cost us a fortune.”
I didn’t answer.
Because if I answered then, I was going to say things no parent wants to admit about their own child.
At dawn, I called an old lawyer colleague.
“I need a temporary custody order today.”
“Is he that bad?”
I looked at Sofía through the glass, asleep with an IV in her arm.
“More bad than I can explain over the phone.”
When Sofía woke up, she didn’t ask if she was going to die. She didn’t ask about the hospital. She didn’t ask about her fever.
She asked:
