You almost laughed.
“No. He is your child. Being a father requires presence.”
Andrés grew irritated.
“Don’t start with that. I sent money.”
“For three months.”
“I was young.”
“You were forty-three.”
Silence.
Then he said the thing that told you everything.
“Listen, I’m trying to clean up my image. People ask why I never mention my son. It looks bad.”
There it was.
Not regret.
Not love.
Public relations.
You leaned against the counter and closed your eyes.
“Do not call again unless Mateo asks for you.”
Andrés lowered his voice.
“You can’t keep my son from me.”
You opened your eyes.
“I didn’t. You left him from yourself.”
Then you hung up.
That night, you told Mateo.
He listened without expression.
When you finished, he asked, “Did he ask what I like?”
You swallowed.
“No.”
“Did he ask if I’m happy?”
“No.”
“Did he say sorry?”
You couldn’t answer.
Mateo nodded.
“Then I don’t need to see him.”
You waited.
“Are you sure?”
He looked at you with eyes too old for thirteen.
“I wanted a father. Not an audience.”
You had never been prouder of him.
Still, Andrés did not disappear completely after that.
He sent birthday messages that sounded copied from the internet. He liked photos of Mateo that relatives posted. He tried to follow your son online, but Mateo declined the request.
Then, suddenly, Andrés began mentioning “my brilliant son” in public.
He posted vague statements about fatherhood.
