Not for the better.
His relationship with Valeria became public, then messy, then ridiculous. They posted luxury trips, then vague quotes about betrayal, then photos where they seemed to be competing for attention more than loving each other.
He started a business selling imported furniture and failed within two years.
Then he entered real estate.
Then cryptocurrency.
Then private consulting.
Every few years, he reinvented himself as a successful man.
But success that needs constant announcement is usually bleeding somewhere underneath.
You only knew these things because people told you.
Your cousin sent screenshots. A former neighbor whispered updates at the market. Once, Mateo’s teacher mentioned she had seen Andrés at a charity event with a much younger woman and then turned red when she realized who she was talking to.
You learned to smile politely.
“That’s his life,” you would say.
And you meant it.
Mostly.
The hardest moment came when Mateo turned ten.
He had a school ceremony for academic excellence. You wore your best dress, the navy one you had altered twice because you couldn’t afford a new one. Mateo wore a white shirt and stood onstage holding a certificate almost bigger than his chest.
After the ceremony, he looked around the crowd.
Not obviously.
Just a little.
But you knew.
Every child with an absent parent becomes an expert at searching doorways.
“Are you okay?” you asked afterward.
He smiled too quickly.
“Yes.”
You took him for ice cream.
He ate silently for a few minutes, then said, “Do you think he knows I’m smart?”
You set down your spoon.
“I don’t know.”
“Would he care?”
That question was a knife.
You could have lied.
You wanted to lie.
Instead, you said, “He should.”
Mateo looked at you.
“But does he?”
You reached across the table and held his hand.
“Some people don’t know how to value what is precious. That doesn’t make the precious thing worth less.”
He looked down at his melting ice cream.
Then he whispered, “I don’t want to be like him.”
