She lets him go.
She does not fight.
That should calm you, but it does not.
You hold Mateo against your chest and feel his warm breath through your shirt. He smells like milk, baby soap, and the soft clean powder Mercedes always uses after changing him.
“How long have you known?” you ask.
Mercedes wipes her cheek.
“That you were Gabriel’s son? Almost five months.”
Five months.
You think of every afternoon. Every bottle. Every nap. Every time she asked if Mateo had eaten enough, if you had slept, if you needed soup.
Five months of kindness with a secret underneath.
“How?”
She looks toward the hallway.
“The mailboxes downstairs. I saw your name. Torres. Lucia Torres was your mother’s married name after she left Queens. But your middle name on the package one day…” She swallows. “Alejandro Gabriel Torres.”
You freeze.
Only your mother used that full name when she was angry or emotional.
Mercedes continues.
“I told myself it was a coincidence. Then I saw your face. Then I saw Mateo. And I knew.”
You grip your son tighter.
“You knew because my baby looked like your son?”
“Yes.”
“That is insane.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” Your voice rises, and Mateo whimpers. You lower it with effort. “You don’t get to decide a stranger is family because grief tells you so.”
Mercedes nods.
“You’re right.”
Again, she does not defend herself.
Again, it cuts the rope of your anger in a way you do not want.
