My baby was still there.
Still fighting.
Still choosing me.
Andrés, on the other hand, kept drifting farther away.
First, it was late meetings.
Then business trips.
Then silence.
Then the smell of unfamiliar perfume on his shirts.
I noticed everything.
I just didn’t want to believe it.
When my son was finally born, I named him Mateo.
He was tiny, strong, and beautiful, with dark eyes that looked at the world like he already understood more than a newborn should.
The moment they placed him on my chest, every year of waiting, every insult, every failed hope, every lonely prayer folded itself into one feeling.
Love.
Pure, terrifying, endless love.
Andrés arrived late to the hospital.
He walked in wearing a perfectly ironed shirt, new cologne, and the face of a man who had already left before he ever packed a bag.
He looked at Mateo for a moment.
Then he said:
“He’s cute.”
Cute.
Not my son.
Not our miracle.
Not thank God he’s here.
Just cute.
Like he was looking at a stranger’s baby in an elevator.
I said nothing.
