She nods.
“You’re welcome.”
It is small.
But it is a bridge.
A month later, you let her watch Mateo for twenty minutes while you go downstairs to switch laundry.
You stand in the laundry room staring at the washing machine timer like it is a bomb.
When you return, the door is open.
Mercedes is sitting in the armchair, Mateo on her lap, singing a lullaby in Spanish. She looks up when you enter and stops immediately, waiting to see if you are angry.
Mateo laughs.
A full baby laugh.
The kind that shakes his whole body.
You lean against the doorframe.
“Keep singing,” you say.
Mercedes’s eyes fill.
She keeps singing.
From then on, the afternoons come back slowly.
Not every day.
Not like before.
But enough.
You sit with her sometimes now. She tells you stories about Gabriel. You tell her stories about your mother. Elena visits on Sundays and brings ridiculous amounts of food because she says guilt makes her cook.
You tell her guilt makes terrible seasoning.
