The room stills.
You kneel beside him.
“That’s your Grandpa Gabriel,” you say.
Mercedes covers her mouth.
Mateo studies the picture.
“He gone?”
You take a breath.
“Yes, buddy. He’s gone.”
Mateo looks at you.
“You sad?”
You think of the boy you were, the man you became, the letter, the lie, the neighbor’s door, the old photograph, the baby in her arms.
“Sometimes,” you say.
Mateo touches your face.
“Okay, Daddy.”
Then he runs off to chase a toy truck.
Children do not heal adults on purpose.
They simply keep living, and sometimes that is enough to pull everyone forward.
Years later, when Mateo starts kindergarten, Mercedes insists on coming with you to the first day of school. She wears her gray shawl even though it is warm out and brings tissues for everyone.
You pretend you do not need them.
You need three.
Mateo walks into the classroom with a backpack too big for him. Before entering, he turns back, runs to you, hugs your legs, then runs to Mercedes and hugs hers too.
“Bye, Daddy. Bye, Meme.”
She almost collapses from joy.
You hold her elbow.
