The wealthy boss thought it would be fun. He asked his son to choose a new mother from among the models at the party. But when the boy pointed out the young cleaning lady in a corner of the room, everyone held their breath.

The room was filled with lights, soft music, and fake laughter. Everyone was dressed to the nines, with suits that smelled new and dresses that sparkled like jewels. It was the typical night when rich people played at feeling important, surrounded by drinks, expensive faces, and empty conversations.

Amidst it all, Mauricio Herrera moved like a fish in water with his calm smile, his perfectly trimmed beard, and his black suit without a single wrinkle; he seemed to have everything under control. No one imagined him carrying the pain he’d carried inside since his wife died. But that night wasn’t one for crying.

It was a charity gala he himself had organized, complete with a live orchestra to help children with rare diseases, although in reality everyone knew it was an excuse for businessmen to show off and take photos with good faces.

Mauricio, a millionaire since his 30s thanks to an inheritance and well-managed business, had grown accustomed to these kinds of events, although nothing had excited him since his wife’s death. He had also brought his son, Emiliano, to the event, a 6-year-old boy with a serious face and big eyes. Many said he looked just like his mother. Although he barely spoke to the adults, the boy never left his father’s side. That night, he had him sitting on his lap, bored, while the master of ceremonies continued to thank everyone for their donations.

It was then that, to kill time, Mauricio decided to make a joke, something trivial. He leaned slightly toward his son and, without thinking much about it, said in a low voice, “Let’s see, Emy, which of these ladies would you like to be your new mother?” The boy looked at him, confused. Mauricio giggled, half playfully, half daring himself to say something he didn’t have the courage to mean. Models walked past them, hired to serve wine, pose for photos, and walk elegantly around the room.

There were magazine-worthy blondes, brunettes with intense gazes, and women in dresses so tight they looked like they couldn’t breathe. Most of the guests turned to look at them, some discreetly, others without shame. Mauricio expected the boy to point at one of them playfully, but what happened left him speechless. Emiliano didn’t look at any of the models; instead, he pointed with his little finger toward a corner of the room, right where a young woman was crouching. She was cleaning the floor with a rag, wearing a light gray uniform, her hair tied back, and without a drop of makeup.

She was a worker there, one of the cleaning staff. Mauricio frowned at her, surprised, asking. The boy nodded without taking his eyes off her. “Why?” Mauricio insisted, trying to understand. Emiliano, in a low but firm voice, said, “Because she looks like my mom.” There was a strange silence in Mauricio’s mind. He didn’t know what to say. Instinctively, he turned to look at her. The girl was still on her knees, carving a spot in the white marble, unaware that someone was watching her.

She was thin, fair-skinned, with a serious but calm expression. There was something familiar about her eyes, though he couldn’t say that the resemblance to his wife wasn’t exact. But there was something about her gaze. Or perhaps in the way she focused on what she was doing. Mauricio remained silent. It wasn’t a situation he could simply laugh and let go. For the first time in a long time, something stirred in his chest. It wasn’t love or desire, it was curiosity, a kind of discomfort mixed with intrigue.

The rest of the night continued, but he wasn’t the same. Every time he turned to that corner, he saw her there doing her job, not looking at anyone. While the models posed and the wives of businessmen talked about their travels, she continued cleaning without anyone noticing—no one, except a 6-year-old boy and a man who had buried his wife two years earlier. Later, when the event was over, Mauricio couldn’t help but ask about her.

He didn’t want to seem strange or get into trouble, so he spoke to his trusted assistant, Sergio, a discreet man who knew when to ask questions and when not to. He asked him to find out who he was, his name, and if he always worked there. Sergio raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. He nodded and went to investigate. That night, when they returned home, Emiliano fell asleep in the car. Mauricio picked him up and carried him to bed.

Then he stared at an old photo in the living room. His wife, Alejandra, smiling with Emiliano in her arms. It had been a long time since he’d last seen her. Sometimes he dreamed about her, sometimes he avoided it, but that night he couldn’t help but remember her eyes. The next day, Sergio arrived with the details. The girl’s name was Fernanda Morales. She was 29 years old. She lived in a lower-middle-class area on the east side of the city and worked in two different places.

In the event hall at night and in an office cleaning in the morning. He did it all to support his mother, who had been ill for a couple of years. Mauricio thought for a long time. He didn’t say anything else, just asked for the push-to contact information for the salon where he worked. Sergio raised his eyebrow again, but didn’t ask anything. He’d already learned that when Mauricio had something on his mind, it was best not to question it.

Tonight, while the rest of the world was lost in TV shows, expensive dinners, or Friday nights, Mauricio sat alone in his studio, staring out the window with a glass of whiskey in his hand, thinking about Fernanda—not in a romantic way, nor with any clear intentions, just thinking, wondering why, among so many women in shiny dresses and fake smiles, his son had chosen her, the only one who didn’t seem to want to attract attention. And the strangest thing of all is that for the first time in a long time, he wanted to know more, too.

Mauricio didn’t usually do these things. He wasn’t one of those people to obsess over someone without even knowing them. His life, since Alejandra’s death, had been work, numbers, meetings, expensive food, and silence. A lot of silence. But ever since that gala night, something had stuck in his head. He didn’t know what exactly it was, the girl’s gaze. The way his son pointed at her without hesitation, or perhaps how much she resembled a person who was no longer there, he didn’t know, but the image of that woman bent down, cleaning the floor, followed him like a shadow.

The following Monday, while his chauffeur was driving him to a meeting, Mauricio was riding in the backseat, staring into space. Sergio, his assistant, glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He knew exactly what he was thinking, because the day before, without Mauricio even asking, he had already researched everything he could about the woman. Fernanda Morales, born in Iztapalapa, was an only child. Her father had died when she was 13, and from then on, her mother had taken care of everything until she fell ill three years ago.

Since then, Fernanda worked day and night to pay for medicine, food, rent, transportation, and everything else a life like that entails. Sergio sat across from him in the office, took out his cell phone, and showed him a photo he’d found. It was from Facebook, old, poorly framed, but her face was visible. Mauricio looked at it for a few seconds, said nothing, just nodded. Then he asked her where she worked during the day. Sergio explained that in the mornings she cleaned offices in a building in Polanco.

Mauricio didn’t say he was going, but that same week he ordered a surprise inspection at the same place. He didn’t even get out the first time, just a warning. He saw her leave through the staff entrance. She was carrying a sweaty backpack over her shoulder, her uniform wrinkled, and her hair wet, as if she’d washed her face in a hurry. She crossed the street without looking at anyone, taking quick steps and without stopping. It was obvious she was in a hurry. Mauricio asked the driver to follow her at a distance.

He felt strange doing it, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to know more, not out of morbid curiosity or because he wanted to pry into her life, but to understand what it was about her that moved him so deeply. They followed her to a working-class area in the eastern part of the city. She got off at a street lined with closed-down shops and houses jammed together. She entered an old building with peeling paint. It didn’t take long. About 40 minutes later, she emerged wearing a different blouse, carrying a cloth bag, and a bottle of water.

The driver asked if they were continuing. Mauricio said no, that he’d had enough. He didn’t want to intrude any further. But the sight of that woman getting off a minibus, entering Minus, a seedy building, and then walking out as if nothing had happened, left him uneasy. That night he didn’t eat dinner. He stayed in his study with his computer on, reading emails without concentrating. Emiliano came in for a while to tell him something about school, but Mauricio barely listened. Only when his son told him he’d made a drawing of his mother and wanted to show it to her did he react, sitting next to him on the rug and listening attentively.

The drawing was simple. A woman in a blue dress, a boy with a happy face, and a tall man in a suit. The curious thing was that the woman didn’t have the same hairstyle Alejandra used to wear. Mauricio noticed. “Is that how you remember your mother?” he asked. “No. That’s what Mrs. Fernanda looks like,” the boy replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Mauricio felt a pang in his chest; he didn’t complain, he just hugged him. He held the drawing in his hand, staring at those poorly done lines, yet full of meaning.

The girl in the drawing had her hair up, just like the girl in the salon. The next day he went to work as usual: meetings, calls, important decisions. But one afternoon, when he had a free spot, he went down to the parking lot, got in his truck, and asked the driver to take him back to where Fernanda worked. This time he got out, entered the building as if he were going to a regular meeting, and went up to the floor where she cleaned.

He didn’t speak to her; he just watched her from a distance. She was mopping an empty office with her headphones on. She moved quickly, as if she had to finish by a specific time. When she finished, she took a rag out of her bag and began wiping down the desks. She didn’t seem to notice her surroundings. She didn’t look at anyone. Mauricio felt enormous respect for her, for her way of working, for the way she never stopped for a second. He didn’t know anything about her personal life, but her effort was evident in every movement.

Later, she spoke with Sergio and asked him to do a thorough review of her situation, not to upset her, but to find out if there was anything he could help her with without making her feel uncomfortable. Sergio, although already somewhat accustomed to Mauricio’s whims, asked if he wasn’t exaggerating. “She’s just a girl. There are thousands like her,” he said. Mauricio looked at him seriously. “No, not like her.” That night, Sergio handed him a short report. Fernanda had a mother named Lidia Morales, 63 years old, with kidney problems.

She couldn’t work. She’d been undergoing treatment for months. The doctors said she needed dialysis, but they didn’t have the money to pay for it. Fernanda earned just enough to keep them from being kicked out of the apartment, and it was barely enough for generic medicine. They received no help from anyone, had no close relatives, and only had each other. Mauricio read that for several minutes, said nothing, just closed the folder and sat on the couch with the lights off.

The next day, he saw Fernanda again. He went to the event hall without her noticing. He saw her laying out tablecloths, arranging chairs, cleaning bathrooms. And every time he watched her, it became clearer to him that it wasn’t just interest, it was admiration, because he didn’t know many people who would do so much for someone without expecting anything in return. Because in a world full of people selling themselves for a penny, she struggled every day without complaining, because she had nothing.

And yet, she kept trying as if she had everything. And that’s when Mauricio began to wonder something he hadn’t dared to think about since Alejandra died. What would happen if, for once in his life, he let himself be carried away by what he felt? Fernanda’s alarm clock rang at 5 o’clock, like every day. Her room was dark, barely lit by a small lamp that flickered occasionally. She got up quietly, walked barefoot to the bathroom, and splashed water on her face.

Her eyes were swollen, not because she’d been crying, but because of the tiredness that had been building in her body for months. She dressed quickly: jeans, a simple blouse, an old sweater, and a backpack where she packed her lunch, hand sanitizer, and a water bottle. In the kitchen, she had already prepared breakfast for her mother: a smoothie, chopped fruit, and the pills separated by time. She walked to the next room, slowly opened the door, and found her mother asleep, her thin body wrapped in a flowery blanket.

She kissed him on the forehead and left breakfast on the table. Then she left for work. At the same time, in another part of the city, Mauricio was still asleep in his enormous bedroom, with ironed white sheets and the heating set at exactly 20 degrees. Emiliano was sleeping in the next room with a dinosaur lamp on and his favorite stuffed animal in his arms. Breakfast was already being prepared in the kitchen: freshly squeezed juice, toast, fresh fruit, and eggs any style.

Everything was ready, although they wouldn’t get up for another hour. Fernanda, on the other hand, was hanging onto the door of a minibus that had already been packed from the first stop. She held on tightly with one hand, her backpack with the other as the truck lurched forward. It was still dark outside, but the traffic was already starting to move like every morning. She didn’t have time to think much, just to make it through the day. When she arrived at the Polanco building where she cleaned offices, she greeted the security guard with a tired smile and went up to the eighth floor.

There, like every day, he put on his gloves, took out the cleaning fluids, and started working without wasting any time. He had three hours to leave everything spotless before the employees arrived, and if he was late, they’d dock his day. Meanwhile, at Mauricio’s house, the chauffeur had the van ready. The boy got in with his ironed uniform, a new backpack, and a limp smile because he didn’t want to go to school. Mauricio accompanied him as always, wearing his elegant suit, his hair combed without a single hair out of place.

On the way, they talked about anything and everything: a game, a new toy, or the drawing Emiliano had done the night before. They seemed like a peaceful family, but Mauricio still had in mind the woman he saw cleaning offices the other day. Fernanda finished her shift at 9:30, put away her things, washed her hands, and left without saying much. She walked two blocks to the subway stop, got off the platform, and waited. She hadn’t had breakfast, but she was used to it.

His next job started at 11:00 a.m., at an event venue south of the city. If he arrived late, they’d take away his day’s bonus. He couldn’t afford that luxury. Mauricio, on the other hand, arrived at his office in Santa Fe, drank a coffee with almond milk, checked emails on his state-of-the-art computer, and had an hour-long meeting with partners from another company. No one seemed distracted, but he couldn’t stop thinking about something he didn’t understand. Oh, anyway, why had Fernanda gotten into his head?

In the afternoon, Fernanda arrived at her second job. The gray uniform was too big for her, her sneakers were old, but she always wore her hair neatly tied back. Even though her back ached and her feet burned, she didn’t complain. She greeted the managers, folded tablecloths, moved tables, and carried out trays. She went from one place to another as if she had a motor. A coworker asked her if she never got tired. Fernanda smiled and said, “Of course I get tired, but I have no choice.”

That day there was a birthday party for a rich girl, with balloons, clowns, fancy food, even a DJ with colored lights. Fernanda watched it all from the bar while washing glasses. She didn’t feel envy or sadness. She just watched as if she were watching a movie where she would never be on camera. Mauricio, meanwhile, went to a dinner with investors at an elegant restaurant. They ate cobe beef, drank imported wine, and talked about millions as if they were coins.

When they left, they invited him to a club, but he refused. He said he had things to do. He didn’t really want to talk to anyone. All he thought about was how far away he lived from everything that really mattered, how long he’d been surrounded by people who only said what he wanted to hear, and that woman who, without speaking to him, already told him more than everyone else. That same night, Fernanda returned home with numb legs and cracked hands.

He entered carefully, went straight to his mother’s room, and found her asleep. He gently stroked her hair and then went to take a bath. The water was lukewarm, sometimes cold. He washed his body with a worn bar of soap and sat for a few minutes on the floor with his head between his knees. She didn’t cry; she couldn’t even cry anymore. On the other side of town, Mauricio opened a bottle of wine, poured himself a glass, and went out into the garden.

He sat in one of the chairs in the backyard, looking at the city lights in the distance. The house was silent. Emiliano was sleeping, and for the first time in a long time, he felt completely alone, not only inside but also outside. That’s when he realized that his world and Fernanda’s had nothing in common, that he had everything but a life, and that she, with so little, carried an entire world.

Wednesday started like any other for Fernanda. She woke up to the same old sound: the squealing alarm on her cheap cell phone. Her body was complaining. She had a slight ache in her lower back and a burning pain in her heels, but she couldn’t stop. She took an ice-cold shower, put on her light gray uniform, and prepared breakfast for her mom. Then she ran out the door, like every morning, catching the subway with the clock ticking. What she didn’t know was that this day was going to be different, because that morning someone else was also on their way to the same place as her.

Mauricio had decided not to think about it anymore. He didn’t want to just watch her from afar anymore. He didn’t know what he was going to say or how that would sound without seeming weird, but he did know he needed to talk to her. Just like that, the hours passed. Fernanda had already mopped the second-floor hallway, dusted desks, and cleaned the women’s restroom. She was about to head to the dining room for a coffee when she heard a call from reception. One of the managers told her they needed to clean an office on the 7th floor immediately because they were having a special meeting.

She went upstairs without thinking, with the cleaning cart, not imagining what she was going to find. The office was large, with an incredible view of the city. It had dark furniture, books arranged on glass shelves, and a rug that clearly cost more than all the clothes Fernanda had in her closet. She wasn’t impressed. She had cleaned more luxurious places before, but what really threw her off was that when she opened the door, she walked straight into a man waiting for her.

Good morning, Mauricio said. Calmly, with his hands in his pockets. Fernanda froze. She recognized him instantly. It was him, the organizer of the event where she worked just a week ago. She’d seen him in photos, on the news, in the magazines the lady at the newsstand left outside, one of those seemingly untouchable entrepreneurs, and now he was standing in front of her. “Did you ask me to come clean?” she asked, trying to sound confident, even though her heart was pounding in her throat.

“No, I just wanted to talk to you.” Fernanda tensed. Her first thought was, “I did something wrong. I accidentally broke something at the gala. Had anyone complained about her? They were going to fire her. It’s because of the event,” she began, “but Mauricio interrupted her with a gesture. It’s not because of that. Calm down.” She gripped the mop tightly. She didn’t know whether to stay or leave. All the possibilities of what could be happening began to run through her head.

They were going to complain, propose something strange, ask her to sign something. Mauricio noticed it. He noticed the way she became defensive, as if life had already pushed her against the wall many times. It seemed unfair to him that someone like that should be afraid even during a simple conversation. “I saw how you worked,” he said at the event. “And here I just wanted to tell you that I admire your way of doing things.” Fernanda looked at him with narrowed eyes.

She hadn’t remotely expected that answer. That’s all. Yes. Silence. Neither of them knew quite how to continue. She continued standing with the mop in her hand, unsure whether to thank him, run away, or wait for instructions. He, for his part, didn’t want to seem crazy. He just felt the need to make it clear that he’d noticed her, that something about her had stuck in his head. “My name’s Mauricio,” he finally said, extending his hand. Fernanda hesitated for two seconds and then shook it.

Hers was covered in marks from the chemicals and the work, but she was firm, Fernanda. And that was it. He didn’t ask for her number, didn’t offer her anything, just nodded, as if that conversation had been enough. She picked up her mop, looked down, turned around, and left. When she got into the elevator, she stared at her reflection in the metal door for a few seconds. She didn’t understand a thing. She went down to her own floor and continued working as if nothing had happened.

But something inside her wasn’t the same. She couldn’t stop thinking about that strange scene. Why him? Why her? What was he supposed to be doing with this? He didn’t ask for favors, offer her money, or mistreat her. He just looked at her the way no one had looked at her in years, straight in the eyes, as if what she was doing had value. That same day, at home, while washing the dishes after dinner, her mother noticed she was distracted.

Are you okay, mija? Yes, ma, I’m just tired. But it wasn’t that. I had a strange feeling in my chest. It wasn’t fear. It was like a small spark I didn’t know whether to extinguish or leave burning. Across town, Mauricio was also silent, sitting in front of his computer, not touching the keyboard. His head was spinning, but not from work. He felt like someone just waking up from something that had been dormant for a long time. It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was something.

And even though it was just an exchange of words, something shifted that day. In both of them. Two days passed after that awkward conversation between Fernanda and Mauricio. Two days in which she forced herself not to think about it, even though inside she couldn’t stop mulling it over. It was as if a part of her mind wanted to convince herself that nothing had happened, that it was just a random comment, a curious moment, and that was it. But the truth is, that scene had stuck to her like gum on the sole of her shoe.

Meanwhile, Mauricio wasn’t much for beating around the bush. But with Fernanda, he was, not because he didn’t know what he wanted to do, but because he didn’t know how she would react. He didn’t see her as someone who would be impressed by a new truck or an expensive restaurant. On the contrary, he saw her as one of those people who, if pressured, would close like a double-locked door. That’s why he wasn’t direct. He spoke with Sergio, his assistant, and asked him to carefully craft a proposal, something clean, without sounding invasive or strange.

Sergio, although he didn’t quite understand what was happening, did as he was asked. He called the place where Fernanda worked nights, introduced himself as part of Mr. Herrera’s team, and asked to speak with her. He was told she was folding tablecloths and wanted to leave a message. Sergio insisted. In the end, the shift manager came to get her. Fernanda thought it was an emergency with her mother. She dropped what she was doing and ran to the phone. When she heard someone speaking on behalf of Mauricio, she felt like her stomach was tightening.

Good evening, Fernanda Morales. Yes, who’s speaking? My name is Sergio. I work with Mr. Mauricio Herrera. He asked me to speak with you to make you a job offer. It would be a permanent position with better salary and benefits. If you’re interested, we could schedule a meeting tomorrow at a place of your choice. Silence. Fernanda didn’t know what to say. She looked to the side, then at the floor. Her hands were sweating. There was something about all this she didn’t like. Too fast, too perfect.

Why would someone like him want to offer a job to someone like her? What kind of job was that? Why didn’t he just say it? What kind of job is it? He asked, trying to sound firm. Mr. Herrera needs a trustworthy person to support him at home, organize his family’s schedule, help with his son’s care, and some personal administrative tasks—nothing out of the ordinary. He chose her for her attitude, responsibility, and work ethic.

She’s observed it and believes it would be a good opportunity for both of them. Fernanda remained silent for a few more seconds. Then she said she would think about it. That night she couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned over the subject in her mind. There was something inside her that told her not to accept, not to trust, that no one gives anything without wanting something in return, especially not someone with that much money. But at the same time, what if it really was a good opportunity? What if not everyone was the same?

What if he really wanted to help her? Was he willing to accept help? The answer came the next day, but not from Mauricio. At 7:00 a.m., his mother woke up with a pale face and numb legs. She couldn’t get out of bed; everything hurt. Fernanda tried to calm her, but the trembling in her mother’s hands was different, stronger, more worrying. She went to the nearest pharmacy, asked for a shot, and ran back. But the woman didn’t respond the same.

She called a doctor she knew who sometimes came for house calls, and when the doctor’s face arrived, it spoke volumes. She needs urgent hospitalization. This isn’t going to be handled at home. Fernanda felt like her world was coming down on her. She didn’t have money for an ambulance, much less a private clinic. She called a taxi, got her mother in as best she could, and they went to the nearest general hospital. There, as always, there was a line, people waiting on plastic chairs, nurses running around, and the smell of disinfectant that stung her nose.

After almost two hours, she was admitted. The diagnosis was clear. Her mother needed urgent and ongoing treatment—dialysis—soon and expensive. Otherwise, the damage would only increase each week. The doctor gave her an estimate of what it would all cost. Fernanda didn’t have even 5% of that amount. She went home, locked herself in the bathroom, and collapsed on the floor. There she cried with rage, fear, and helplessness. She wiped her face with cheap toilet paper and stared at the ceiling.

That same afternoon, she called the number Sergio had given her. “I accept the appointment,” she said, “but I want to speak to him in person.” They gave her the address of a quiet café, away from the posh area, at a time when there wouldn’t be many people. When she arrived, she saw him sitting at a corner table, with no bodyguards, no expensive suit, just a rolled-up blue shirt with his sleeves and a serious expression. She sat down without saying hello. Her face was tired, her eyes red, but her voice was firm.

“Why me? Because I trust you,” he said bluntly. “Because I saw you work, and it seemed unfair that someone like you doesn’t have a better life. And what do you want in return? Nothing, just for you to help me, to work with me. I want you to be close to my son, to support me with my schedule. I’m not looking for anything else.” Fernanda looked at him sharply. She wasn’t naive, but something in her way of speaking. In her tone, in her gaze, lacked that false sparkle I’d seen before in other men, who also made promises.

And if you change your mind tomorrow, I’m not going to change.” She remained silent for a few seconds, then reached across the table. “Okay, I accept.” Mauricio smiled for the first time during the entire meeting. Fernanda didn’t. She was only thinking about her mother, the hospital bed, the unfinished business, the promise she had made to herself since she was a child: to get ahead without losing herself. And although she didn’t say it out loud, inside her head there was only one phrase: “If this gets out of control, I’m leaving without looking back.”

The gate to the house opened slowly, with a soft sound, as if they didn’t want to disturb anyone. The white pickup truck entered unhurriedly. Fernanda sat in the backseat, her hands clenched on her backpack and her nerves building in her chest. She had been to many wealthy houses to clean, but this time it wasn’t the same. This time she wasn’t going to scrub floors or pick up dirty dishes. This time it was different, and that weighed on her more.

The driver got out first and opened the door for her. Fernanda stepped out with a slow stride, looking around as if she were treading on unfamiliar territory. The garden was enormous, with perfectly cut grass and plants arranged as if they had been drawn. The main entrance had a giant wooden door with golden handles that gleamed in the sun. Nothing was out of place, nothing old, nothing broken, everything immaculate. When she entered the house, her first thought was that it smelled like an expensive store. That kind of smell that you don’t know where it comes from, but it makes you feel like you’re in a place where everything costs more than you can afford.

The apartment gleamed, the walls were white, the stairs floated like something out of an architecture magazine, and in the corners were vases that looked like they belonged in a museum. She felt instantly uncomfortable, as if just being there was already dirtying something. From the other side of the hall, a woman in her fifties appeared, her hair tied back, a perfectly clean apron, and a serious face. “You must be Fernanda,” she said without smiling. “Yes, nice to meet you. I’m Marilu. I’ve been working with Mr. Herrera for 15 years, as the house manager.”

Anything, ask me. Fernanda nodded. But the way the woman looked at her wasn’t kind. She wasn’t rude, but she was sharp, as if warning her with her eyes that it wouldn’t be easy to gain her trust. Marilu didn’t offer her water, a seat, or rest. She gave her a quick tour of the house, pointing without stopping. Here’s the kitchen. Here’s the main dining room. Here’s the child’s playroom. There’s the Lord’s study.

That hallway leads to the private rooms. And this is yours. He led her to a small but clean room with a single bed, a nightstand, an empty closet, and a window overlooking the backyard. Fernanda left her backpack on the bed without sitting down. Her back was tense. “The boy gets out of school at 1:00. The chauffeur is bringing him today. The Lord wants you to welcome him,” Marilu said, crossing her arms. “I hope you’re up to it.”

We don’t like to do things halfway around here. And with that, he left, leaving the door ajar. Fernanda stood there for a few seconds without moving. She took a deep breath, washed her face in the bathroom she shared with the staff, arranged her hair, and went down to the kitchen. There she met Olga, the cook. Unlike Marilu, she smiled at him. “Finally, I meet you,” she said in a cheerful voice. Emiliano hasn’t stopped talking about you since he found out you were coming.

He said you’re like a superhero who cleans everything in seconds. Fernanda laughed softly. I’m just doing what I can. Well, welcome. There are rules here. Yes, but if you do things right, you’ll have no problem. At almost 1 o’clock, the truck returned. Fernanda walked out into the hall with sweaty hands. The driver got out and opened the back door. Emiliano got out with his blue backpack hanging from one shoulder and a huge smile upon seeing her. Fernanda screamed. She opened her arms without thinking, and the boy ran to hug her.

It was such a natural moment that even the driver smiled. The boy began to tell her he’d played soccer, that he brought homework, that he was hungry. Fernanda listened attentively, slowing down, breathing more calmly. Mauricio appeared at that moment, coming down the stairs with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his cell phone in hand. When he saw his son with Fernanda, he smiled slightly. He approached slowly. “All right.” Fernanda straightened instantly. “Yes, sir. Emiliano has arrived. Did they settle you in all right?” “Yes, thank you.”

Anything, just tell me. Of course. They looked at each other for just a second, just enough. Then he turned to the boy, hugged him, and took him to the kitchen. The rest of the afternoon passed peacefully. Fernanda helped with his homework, made the boy a sandwich, and while he watched a movie, she organized the papers in the family planner: doctor’s appointments, swimming lessons, school meetings, everything neatly noted, everything in order. She worked as if she were just another person, without making noise, without getting in the way.

Marilu watched her from afar. Olga handed her a cup of tea without her even asking. The boy spoke to her as if he’d known her for years. And Mauricio—Mauricio didn’t say much that day, but he seemed calm. The house had a different atmosphere, as if something had changed without anyone saying so. Late at night, when everyone was asleep, Fernanda lay down in her new bed. It wasn’t big, but it was comfortable. She closed her eyes and didn’t know whether to feel happy, scared, or grateful.

She only knew that this place wasn’t hers and that, no matter how well they treated her, she would always be the new one, the one who came from another world, the one who didn’t belong, but at least for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t alone. Renata was sitting on a terrace overlooking the forest, drinking a cold coffee that didn’t even taste like coffee anymore. She had her cell phone in her hand and her sunglasses on, even though it was late and the sun was setting.

She’d been scrolling through Mauricio’s social media for over 20 minutes, and as usual, there was nothing new. He wasn’t one for posting personal things, not even photos with his son. He was reserved and serious, and that was precisely what had attracted her most from the start. He wasn’t like the others. And that’s precisely why she wasn’t going to let him go. She and Mauricio had been in an on-again, off-again relationship for over a year. It wasn’t a soap opera, but there was attraction.

Companionship, physical connection. They were never officially dating, but she made sure people knew she was close to him. She showed up at his events, accompanied him to important dinners, and posed by his side when cameras were around. And although Mauricio never gave her a ring or made any promises, she already saw herself as part of his life. His future wife, the woman who would help him start over after losing Alejandra. That’s why, when she heard from a friend that there was a new woman working at the blacksmith’s house, her stomach turned.

“New, what’s new?” asked a certain Fernanda. My cousin says she was seen at the house helping with the baby, “how young, about your age.” Well, more or less, she’s pretty and very quiet. It seems she’s going to stay and live there. Renata pretended not to care, but inside she felt like she’d been hit. She pretended not to care. She changed the subject, but as soon as she hung up, she dialed Marilu. Marilu wasn’t her friend, but they’d known each other for a while.

Renata always treated her with respect. She gave her little gifts from time to time, and they talked whenever they met. That somewhat fake relationship was going to come in handy now. Hello, Marilu. How are you? Fine, Mrs. Renata. You’re doing very well, thank you. Hey, I heard there’s a new person in the house. Is that true? Yes, miss. Her name is Fernanda. She’s helping with the baby. The man hired her a few days ago. Oh, how strange that you haven’t told me anything. Well, I couldn’t possibly say. Renata gritted her teeth, but kept her voice kind.

And how quiet is she? Polite, she works well. The kid loves her very much. That last bit hit him like a bucket of ice water. Well, that’s good. I imagine she doesn’t have experience in houses like this, right? Not much, but she’s smart and adapts quickly. Renata hung up with a fake smile. As soon as she ended the call, she threw her cell phone on the couch and stared at the ceiling. She’d seen her a thousand times before. She didn’t need to meet her to know the kind of woman she was.

Humble, hardworking, the kind who asks for nothing but ends up taking everything. The kind who seems harmless, and then one day steals what you care about most. Mauricio wasn’t going to let that happen. The next day, without warning, Renata showed up at the house. She arrived well dressed, made up as if she were going to a photo shoot, with the expensive perfume she knew Mauricio liked. Marilu opened the door with a surprised expression, but didn’t say anything, just let her in.

Fernanda was in the study reviewing the boy’s schedule. When she heard heels approaching, she stood up immediately. She hadn’t expected visitors, much less one like that. Renata entered without asking permission, looked her up and down, and approached as if nothing had happened. “You must be Fernanda.” Yes. Good afternoon, Renata. Nice to meet you. Fernanda immediately noticed that this woman hadn’t come in peace. Her gaze was fixed, her words soft but sharp. She didn’t know who she was, but there was no need to ask.

I’m here to see Mauricio. He’s here. I don’t know. I think he’s out for a meeting. Oh, that’s a shame. Well, I’ll take this opportunity to say hello. I’ve heard a lot about you. Fernanda didn’t reply, just nodded politely. “Just a piece of advice,” Renata said, lowering her voice but still smiling. “This isn’t an easy place. Sometimes things aren’t what they seem. Be careful.” Fernanda stared at her expressionlessly. She wasn’t stupid. She understood perfectly well what that woman was doing.

He was marking her. He was making it clear that he wasn’t going to let her go so easily. Thanks for the advice. Renata smiled wider. You’re welcome. She turned and left the studio, leaving a strong scent of perfume and a tension that could have been cut with a knife. That night, Mauricio arrived late. Fernanda didn’t say anything, didn’t mention the visit. She didn’t want to cause trouble or be seen as a gossip. But from that moment on, she knew that her presence in that house wasn’t going to be peaceful.

There was someone watching her, and he wasn’t going to do it from afar. What she didn’t know was that Renata had already ordered an investigation into her past, and that was just the beginning. Fernanda was getting used to the rhythm of the house, but not the place. Everything there felt different, not just because of the size, the furniture, the elegant silence, or the food, which always tasted like something from an expensive restaurant—it was something else entirely. It was that feeling of treading on territory that wasn’t hers, as if any misstep could send her flying off the radar in a second.

That’s why he measured every word, every movement, always with respect, with care. That’s how he’d lived his whole life: not trusting so quickly, not letting go so easily. But there was something beginning to move that way of being, or rather, someone. Emiliano, the boy, was a happy, curious, affectionate magnet. He became attached to Fernanda from day one and never let go. It was as if he’d been waiting for her, as if her presence filled a void he didn’t even know the name of anymore.

He told her everything he did at school, what he dreamed of, what he was afraid of, what he missed. And she listened to him patiently, tenderly, without pretense, because what she felt for that boy wasn’t work, it was real love. One afternoon, after doing his homework, Emiliano threw himself down on the playroom rug and said out of the blue, “Do you also get sad when someone leaves?” Fernanda stopped folding a blanket and sat down next to him.

Like who? Like my mom. Sometimes I feel like I remember her voice, but sometimes I don’t. And that makes me sad. She looked at him silently. She stroked his hair gently. It’s normal, but even if you don’t remember her clearly, she’s there. And she pointed at his chest. That won’t fade. Emiliano hugged her arm as if that sentence were enough for now. Mauricio, who had passed by in the hallway at that moment, saw them from the half-open door.

He didn’t say anything, just watched them for a few seconds. And for the first time in a long time, he felt like his son was accompanied, not by someone who was paid to watch him, but by someone who actually wanted to be there. That night, after dinner, Fernanda was in the kitchen helping Olga with some Tupperware when Mauricio came in for a glass of water. They had met many times, but almost always in quick moments, with short greetings and practical phrases. This time he stayed a little longer.

“Do you like it here?” Fernanda looked up, wiped her hands with a rag. “Yeah, well, it’s a big change, but I’m grateful. Are you comfortable? Sometimes. I’m still not completely used to it.” Mauricio leaned on the bar. He seemed relaxed, but eager to say something more. “My son loves you very much.” Fernanda looked down and smiled. “He’s an incredible boy. He’s very noble, very smart. He takes after his mother.” She looked at him more closely.

What was she like? Mauricio remained silent for a second. Not because he didn’t want to talk, but because he hadn’t in a long time. She was strong, direct, a good mother, didn’t like appearances, and always spoke her mind. Sometimes that got us into trouble, and he laughed a little, but she was brave. Fernanda nodded, didn’t say anything else, but that night, that short conversation, left something in her heart. The days passed, and without realizing it, they began to talk more.

Nothing planned, it just happened. Sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes in the garden while Emiliano played, other times in the library when they happened to be together. There was something natural between them, unforced. Simple but sincere conversations. One Saturday afternoon, Fernanda was watering some plants on the balcony when Mauricio came out with a cup of coffee in his hand, sat down in one of the chairs, and looked at her without saying anything. “Do you take care of plants too?” he asked. “Not much, but Olga says if they die, she’ll say it was me, so I better water them.” Mauricio laughed.

Fernanda was surprised. It wasn’t common to see him laughing. “Were you always like that?” he asked, as if it were a matter of fact. “Ever since I became the adult in the house. I was 13 when my dad died. My mom got sick shortly after, and from then on, there was no time to make things difficult for me.” Mauricio looked at her more closely, not with pity, but with respect. “And you?” she asked suddenly. “Were you always so serious?” He raised his eyebrows. “No, I used to be a mess.”

But when Alejandra left, a lot of things faded away. I focused on work, on the child. I closed a lot of doors, and now you’re opening them? Mauricio didn’t respond immediately; he just looked at her. And that look had no ulterior motive. It was an honest look, as if at that moment the answer was maybe. That same night, Emiliano ran into the study where Fernanda was reviewing some papers. He was carrying a notebook and a crayon in his hand. “Look,” he said.

I drew the three of them. The drawing was simple but clear: there was him, Mauricio, and Fernanda, all of them peaceful, holding hands, in a park, the sun, the trees, even a little dog. She felt a lump in her throat, but she just smiled. “And who’s this?” she asked, pointing at the little dog. “His name is Toby. We don’t have him, but I’ve already dreamed about him.” Mauricio arrived just then, saw the drawing, and didn’t say anything, but he put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Let’s go to sleep, champ. Emiliano left happily, carrying his notebook. Mauricio stood still for a few seconds. “Thanks for being here.” Fernanda just nodded. And although nothing else was said that night, something was growing between them, something that didn’t have a name yet, but it was noticeable. Renata wasn’t one of those who shouted or made a fuss to stake out her territory. She played dirty, knew how to move, knew how to use the right words to plant doubt, to get others to speak for her, to move things without it being obvious that she was the one pushing them.

That’s why, after her visit to the house, she didn’t return for several days. She waited, but she didn’t stay still. She sent messages, made calls, made innocent comments, just enough to start moving the pieces from afar. Marilou was the first to fall, although she would never admit it. She felt a certain authority within the house. She had been in Mauricio’s service for many years and had seen it all happen. Fake guests, duplicitous girlfriends, self-serving relatives. And although she didn’t say it, sometimes I felt she was the one keeping the balance in that place.

So when Renata called her again, she didn’t hang up. “I’m just telling you to be careful, Marilu,” Renata said in a calm voice. Sometimes a pretty face walks through the back door and then wants to take it all for herself. “I don’t think that’s the young lady’s intention,” Marilu responded, not sounding entirely firm. “Do you think so? Do you know where she’s coming from, what she’s looking for? I’m not saying she’s a bad person, but a single, young woman living with a widowed man and a small child—I don’t know—we have to be careful for everyone’s sake.”

And she hung up. From then on, Marilou began to look at Fernanda differently. She didn’t say anything direct, but her manner changed. It was no longer cold; now it was sharp. The orders were more curt, the comments sharper. “We don’t come here looking for affection, we come to work,” he blurted out one day when he saw her playing with Emiliano in the garden. Fernanda remained silent, didn’t respond, but she felt it. Something had changed. Olga, the cook, also began to notice the tension.

She told her one afternoon while they were washing dishes. I don’t know what happened, but Marilu’s acting strange. With you. She’s not like before. I noticed, Fernanda replied, drying dishes. Did you say something to her? Nothing, but I think someone else did. Olga glanced at her sideways as if to say, “I can imagine who,” but didn’t say anything else. Little by little, the atmosphere became heavy. There were glances that hadn’t been there before, long silences in the hallways, random comments that seemed to be in the air, but that had a purpose.

“They say Miss Fernanda is working overtime with the boss,” a gardener said as he passed by. Fernanda heard him from the kitchen window. Her stomach sank. It wasn’t true. Nothing had happened between them—not a kiss, not a touch, not a clear intention—but everyone was already seeing things where there weren’t any, and that hurt. One night, while Mauricio was reviewing some documents in his study, Fernanda came in to leave him a cup of coffee. It was something she did often, a simple gesture, but this time she hesitated.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, noticing that she didn’t come through the door as usual. “No, nothing, I’m sure she wants coffee. It’s getting late.” Mauricio put the papers aside. “Did they say anything to you?” Fernanda shook her head, but it didn’t convince anyone. “I’ve noticed some people look at me differently,” she said, lowering her voice. Mauricio didn’t respond immediately. He knew exactly what was going on. He had experienced that kind of atmosphere before. He knew that not everyone accepted easily when a new person came to change their routines.

“If anything bothers you, tell me.” He said firmly. “I don’t want to cause problems. You’re not causing them, you’re making them up.” Fernanda nodded, but she didn’t feel any better because it was one thing for him to defend her and another to have to continue living surrounded by people who already saw her as an intruder. And the days went on the same. Emiliano still adored her. Olga supported her however she could, but Marilu no longer spoke to her except to give instructions. And the other employees, although not rude, were beginning to avoid her.

They no longer invited her to eat with them, they no longer sought her out to laugh about something. She became invisible in the midst of everyone. One afternoon, while cleaning the playroom, she heard two new employees whispering in the kitchen. “They say he’s going to keep the inheritance,” one said softly. “Do you think so?” the other replied. “Well, if the man takes a liking to her, he’s done for.” Fernanda gritted her teeth. She didn’t know whether to cry or scream, but she didn’t do either.

She just kept mopping as if she hadn’t heard anything that night, and called her mother. “Is everything okay, daughter?” the woman asked in a weak voice, but happy to hear her. “Sima, I just needed to hear your voice.” And there, in silence, while her mother talked about the treatment of the gossipy neighbor, about the rice that burned, Fernanda felt the knot in her chest loosen a little, because if there was one thing she was sure of, it was that she wasn’t there to please everyone.

She just wanted to do her part, help her mom, take care of Emiliano, and if possible, walk out of there with her head held high. But one thing was clear: they weren’t going to let her off the hook so easily. That day started off strangely. Emiliano woke up with a sleepy face, unwilling to talk, and with slightly dull eyes. Fernanda noticed this from breakfast. He wasn’t complaining, he wasn’t crying, but it was obvious something wasn’t right. “Does something hurt, Emy?” she asked.

She poured him juice. “I don’t know, I feel weird,” he said, leaning his head on the table. Fernanda touched his forehead. He had a fever, not very high, but it was there. “Aren’t you going to school today?” The boy barely raised his head, nodded lazily, and leaned back again. Fernanda accompanied him to the living room couch, put a blanket over him, and went to get the thermometer. Mauricio had already left for an early meeting, so she stayed with the boy all day.

She called the pediatrician, gave him the medicine they’d given him, and checked his temperature every half hour. She didn’t leave his side for even a second. Hours passed. Emiliano barely ate a little soup and went back to bed. He was listless, his eyes closed, but not completely asleep. Fernanda placed cold cloths on his forehead and sat next to him in silence, making no noise, just being there. At one point, the boy reached out and reached for her hand with his fingers.

Fernanda took it. “Are you going to stay here?” he said softly. “Yes, I’ll stay here, even if I fall asleep. Even if you fall asleep.” And she stayed there, sitting on the rug with her back against the sofa and the boy’s hand in hers. She wasn’t sleepy, but she didn’t feel like doing anything else either. She watched him breathe slowly, with the blanket up to his neck and his cheeks red from the fever. She smoothed his hair, put the cold cloth on him again, and every time he moved, she leaned closer to see if he was okay.

More than two hours passed like this. Mauricio arrived around 8 p.m. He had his jacket hanging over his arm and his cell phone in his hand. He walked through the front door and the first thing he noticed was the silence. Too quiet for that hour. He walked into the living room and the scene stopped him in his tracks. Fernanda was sitting on the floor, her head resting on the couch, asleep. Emiliano was lying on her legs, also asleep. The light in the hallway barely illuminated them.

The only sound he could hear was the child’s breathing. And in that image, something inside Mauricio tightened. It wasn’t sadness, or guilt, or nostalgia. It was something else. It was tenderness. That word he hadn’t felt for years, since Alejandra became ill, since he saw her slowly leave, since he learned to swallow the pain with work, with routines, with silences. But there, seeing his son in the arms of that woman he barely knew, he felt something in his world loosen.

He approached slowly, bent down in front of them, and carefully picked Emiliano up in his arms. The boy stirred a little, but didn’t wake up. Fernanda opened her eyes suddenly. “Sorry, I fell asleep,” she said, standing up quickly. “It’s nothing, my fever.” “Yes, but it’s gone down. I gave him the medicine at 3 and 7. He’s feeling a little better now.” Mauricio nodded. “Thank you.” Fernanda looked down. Her back hurt, her legs ached, but she didn’t complain.

“Do you want something to eat?” he asked her before going upstairs with the child. She hesitated. “No, I’m fine. I’ll put things away and go to bed.” “Okay.” Mauricio went upstairs with Emiliano in his arms, laid him down carefully, put the blanket on him, and left a lamp on as usual. Then he stood for a moment in the doorway. Watching him sleep, he went back down to the living room. Fernanda was no longer there; only the thermometer, the wet towel folded on the table, and a small blanket tucked in beside her.

Everything was in order. He went to the kitchen. Olga was washing the last few dishes. “Where’s Fernanda? I think she’s already up to her room. She’s been looking after the boy all day.” Mauricio nodded. He poured himself some tea and stood there motionless. “Are you okay?” Olga asked. He looked at her. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my son this calm with someone.” He didn’t say it, but he thought it. “I don’t feel as calm as I do when he’s with her.”

That night, Fernanda went to bed with a full heart. She didn’t know why. Maybe because of the child, maybe because of the silence, maybe because of the way Mauricio had looked at her when he woke her up. And although she still didn’t understand anything, something in her heart told her that that moment, however small, had changed everything. It was Tuesday. One of those Tuesdays when everything seems normal, but something in the air feels different. Fernanda had started the day as always.

She woke up early, helped Emiliano with his uniform, prepared breakfast, left the school diary ready, and then began organizing the paperwork Mauricio had assigned her. She’d been in her study for a while when she heard the doorbell ring. She didn’t think anything of it. She knew it was a delivery or a quick visit. Marilu went to open the door, but not even a minute had passed before Renata’s voice echoed in the hallway. How strange that they didn’t tell me there were changes in this house.

Now it turns out I have to make an appointment. Fernanda froze. She hadn’t seen her again since that time in the living room when the woman introduced herself and offered her that comment disguised as advice. But that voice, that tone, that perfume wafting down the hall—she recognized everything instantly. Renata was walking determinedly, stomping, dressed for an event, with her hair up and a smile that was only toothy. Marilu walked behind her, nervous, not knowing whether to stop her or let her pass.

Fernanda saw her arrive at the studio door, closed the folder she had in front of her, and stood up. “You again,” Renata said, smiling, always so formal. “Good afternoon,” Fernanda replied in a neutral voice. Renata didn’t wait for an invitation. She entered the studio as if it were her own. She walked slowly, looking around, touching things as if she were inspecting. “So now you work here with an office, air conditioning, coffee, and everything.” Fernanda didn’t answer. She looked straight at her, without moving, but with her body tense.

I knew this time I wasn’t here to disguise anything. What exactly do you do for Mauricio? Do you carry his diary, his coffee? Or do you also warm his bed? Fernanda took a deep breath. She lowered her gaze for a second, not because she felt less than, but because she needed two seconds to avoid answering as she truly felt like it. I don’t have to give you explanations. Renata let out a fake laugh. Oh, please, don’t act so dignified. What do you think? No one sees what you’re doing.

You arrive, you act nice to the kid, you gain the dad’s trust, and in a flash, SAS, you’re already involved in everyone’s lives. Well done. I applaud you. Fernanda stared at her. She no longer felt fear. She felt anger. If you’re so sure of what you’re saying, why are you coming to tell me and not him? Because he doesn’t realize it yet. But I do. You don’t fool me with your humble face and your pretty words.

I know what you’re looking for. And what am I looking for? The same as everyone else. A last name, a house, a bank account. Fernanda clenched her fists and took a step forward. Look, I don’t know what you think, and I don’t care. I came here to work, to take care of a child I love, yes, because he was born to me, not because I planned it, to help in any way I can. I didn’t come to steal anything from anyone. And if you had a special place in this house, it seems you’ve already lost it alone without my help.

Renata was silent for a second. It burned, it was obvious, but she didn’t lose her smile. “Do you think this is a movie? No. The simple girl who falls in love with the rich widower. How sweet. But this isn’t going to end the way you think, and I’m not going to stand by and watch you settle in here as if nothing had happened. Do what you want,” Fernanda responded firmly. “But I’m not afraid of a woman who needs to come screaming to feel like she still matters.” That was the last of it.

Renata turned around, left the studio without saying goodbye, without looking back, walked past Marilu, as if she didn’t exist, and left the house. The door slammed shut. Fernanda was left alone, took a deep breath, leaned on the desk, and felt her legs tremble. She didn’t cry, but she felt that uncomfortable knot that forms when your body is racing faster than your mind. Olga appeared minutes later. Everything was fine. Fernanda just nodded.

He came again. Yes. And I don’t think it will be the last time. Mauricio knows, right? And I’m not going to tell him. Olga looked at her the way you look at someone who’s already part of your family, even if they’re not your blood. I admire you, Fernanda. Not everyone can bear this with a straight face. I have no choice. That night Fernanda locked herself in her room. She didn’t want to have dinner, or talk, or play any music. She just wanted to be alone. Mauricio arrived late. Olga didn’t say anything to him.

Marilu, much less so. No one told him about the visit. No one told him what had happened. But the atmosphere wasn’t the same anymore. And although Fernanda had responded strongly, deep down he knew the blow had already hit him. Mauricio began to notice it little by little, without meaning to. It wasn’t a specific day, it wasn’t a romantic scene, it wasn’t a gesture that suddenly ignited him; it was something slow, something that crept into his chest like a doubt that wouldn’t go away, even though he ignored it.

First, he realized he was looking for her. They were in the same house. And although they each did their own thing, there were times when he would stop what he was doing, just to see if she was nearby. He heard her footsteps coming from the kitchen, her low voice speaking to Emiliano, the sound of cutlery as they all dined together. Then he began to think about her beyond work. He wondered if she had eaten yet, if she was very tired, if she slept well in that small back room.

He started noticing whether she looked sad, serious, or distracted. He began to worry more, and when he realized this, he freaked out. Not because Fernanda didn’t deserve it—on the contrary, he found her admirable, authentic, and brave—but he felt he was crossing a line he shouldn’t cross. He didn’t want to be confused. He didn’t want to bring anyone into his life just to fill a void, least of all her. So he tried to distance himself, not rudely, but clearly. He started avoiding spending too much time in the same places.

If she was in the living room, he’d go to the study. If he found her in the kitchen, he’d say hello quickly and leave. They didn’t talk as much anymore, they didn’t share long conversations, they didn’t look at each other as much. Fernanda noticed it from the second day. She knew it, she felt it, and she understood it, but she didn’t like it. At first, she thought he was incredibly busy with work, that he had meetings or pending matters, but then it was impossible not to notice. Of course. Mauricio was carefully avoiding her, yes, respectfully, but it wasn’t the same anymore.

And that unsettled her. Not because she needed him, not because she expected anything from him, but it hurt to feel that sudden distance, as if what they had built had shattered for no reason. It made her think, wondering if she had done something wrong, if she had said something she shouldn’t have, if Renata had something to do with it, but she didn’t ask, didn’t say anything, kept everything to herself. Mauricio, for his part, felt at war with himself. At night, he told himself he was doing the right thing, that he couldn’t let himself be carried away by a feeling, that perhaps he was confusing affection with gratitude, with companionship, that it was his duty to be responsible, to keep his distance.

But during the day, every time he saw her, all of that went to him. Like that afternoon when Fernanda was helping Emiliano paint a model for school. He came into the room just to drop off a folder, but he stood there, watching the two of them laughing, covered in paint, without worrying about anything else. The boy looked happy, so did she, and he felt something he didn’t want to name. He quickly left the room, closed the door, went into the bathroom, and splashed water on his face.

This can’t be happening to me, she thought. But it was. Fernanda was also having her own fight. A part of her screamed at her that she shouldn’t feel anything for Mauricio, that he wasn’t her world, that this wasn’t hers, that she was there out of necessity, not love, that she should keep a cool head. But another part, another part couldn’t help it. It wasn’t his money, or his house, or his last name. It was the way he’d looked at her that night in the living room when she’d babysat for Emiliano, the way he’d heard her talk about her dad, the way he’d

She’d asked if she was okay when she noticed something was wrong, because of the way he treated her with respect, without speaking to her as if she were less than her. And that was something new in her life, but that’s precisely why she was scared, because when something truly matters to you, it also scares you. And Fernanda had already had enough blows in life without letting her heart out there, so she also began to distance herself. She no longer spent so much time talking to Emiliano if she knew Mauricio was nearby.

She no longer meddled so much in matters that weren’t asked of her. She no longer brought him coffee in the studio like she used to. She started to be more punctual, quieter, more measured. Olga noticed. Did they have a fight or something? She said to him one morning while they were cooking. Who? You and the gentleman. It was obvious you got along well before. Now it seems you don’t even know each other. Fernanda smiled sadly. Nothing happened. It’s just better this way. Are you sure? No, but I’m careful. And yes, they were both taking too much care of each other, so much so that they began to lose what they had built.

One night, Mauricio went down to the kitchen for a glass of water and found her sitting there looking through some papers. They glanced at each other, greeted each other, but said nothing more. Each continued in his own world with an invisible barrier between them. Another night, Fernanda walked past the office and saw him there with his hands on his head. Exhausted, he hesitated whether to go in. She stood in front of the door, took a deep breath, and continued walking. They were both carrying something they didn’t know how to let go of.

And in the midst of it all, Emiliano was still the only one who didn’t understand the reason for this new silence between them. One afternoon, the boy approached Fernanda while she was reading. “You don’t like him anymore, my dad.” Fernanda looked at him in surprise. Of course you do. Why do you say that? Because they don’t laugh like they used to. They don’t talk anymore. Fernanda stroked his hair. Sometimes adults can be weird. I don’t want you to go. She swallowed.

I’m not going to leave, Emy. But she wasn’t so sure either, because when what you feel starts to grow and you try to hide it, you only end up feeling more alone, further away, more confused. And that couldn’t be hidden for long. It was a Wednesday morning. Fernanda had already dropped Emiliano off at school and was sitting in the kitchen going over the week’s shopping list. Olga was washing dishes, and the TV was on in the background.

As always, no one was really watching her; she was just background noise, until a sentence stopped her in her tracks. Businessman Mauricio Herrera, a widower and one of the country’s most eligible bachelors, might be starting a relationship with his maid. According to sources close to her, Fernanda’s head snapped up. Olga turned around. The show’s host smiled at the camera with that fake-excitement face they use for gossip. The images that reached our newsroom show the young woman accompanying him to family events, taking care of their son, and entering and leaving his home at different times.

Some say the relationship is serious and that she’s even living with him. Could this be the return of love for Mauricio Herrera? Fernanda felt the floor shake under her feet. Olga grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. The images were blurry, taken from a distance, but it was her, getting out of the truck, walking with Emiliano into school, walking through the garden with a folder in her hand. Nothing compromising, but enough to cause a scandal. “How small,” Olga said.

“Who said that?” Fernanda couldn’t even speak. Her face was pale. At that moment, Marilu came into the kitchen. She’d also seen the program. “The story came out, huh? I told you this was going to happen sooner or later.” “What do you mean, it’s already out?” Fernanda asked, uncomprehending. “There had been rumors for days. Renata had been saying things. I told the man, but he didn’t listen.” Fernanda clutched her head. She felt a mixture of shame, anger, and fear. She knew Mauricio wasn’t going to be happy.

But beyond that, she didn’t know how it would affect the child, his mother, everything. She didn’t want any scandals, she didn’t want to be the talk of the town. She left the list on the table, went up to her room, locked herself in, and called the hospital. “Mom, if you see something on the news, don’t panic. It’s not what it seems. What happened, daughter? It was a silly thing, a lie, but you know how they are, just don’t worry, Kisí.” She tried to sound calm, but her mother already knew that tone.

She didn’t ask any more questions, but she seemed worried. Mid-morning, Mauricio arrived. Fernanda heard him enter and walked downstairs with firm steps. She found him in the study, checking his cell phone with a frown. He’d seen the note. “It wasn’t me,” she said bluntly from the doorway. He looked up. “I know. I don’t know who. Well, I do know, but I don’t understand how they got those pictures. It’s easy. The house has blind spots, the school too. Anyone with a camera and the desire to annoy can do it.”

Fernanda crossed her arms. What are you going to do? I’ve already spoken to my lawyer. We’re looking into ways to stop this. But if they want to keep making this up, they will. And if they keep doing it, and if this affects the child. Mauricio remained silent. “Look,” she said, lowering her tone. “I didn’t come here to cause trouble. If this gets out of hand, I’m leaving. I don’t want to be at the center of anything. I’m not interested in being part of gossip, much less risking Emiliano getting hurt.”

Mauricio stood up and walked toward her. You didn’t do anything wrong. It doesn’t matter, they’re already pointing fingers at me as if I had. Do you know how many messages I have on my phone? How many comments they’ve left on my old photos? They’ve sought me out, they’ve dug me up, and I have nothing to hide, but I don’t have to put up with this either. You’re not going away. And what are you going to do? I’m going to face it. And he did. That same day, Mauricio posted a message on his social media, short, direct, without explaining what was circulating.

My private life isn’t material for speculation or entertainment. The people who work with me deserve respect. Lies don’t worry me, but they do. The media. Enough. Fernanda watched it on her cell phone, didn’t say anything, but something inside her trembled. She wasn’t used to someone defending her like that, bluntly, unconditionally, but that didn’t prevent what came next. The next day, photographers were waiting outside the school. They took pictures when Emiliano got out of the truck.

Fernanda hugged him, got him into the classroom as quickly as she could, and then went crying in the teachers’ bathroom. It wasn’t fair. He had nothing to do with it, and they were already dragging him into this. Mauricio exploded when he found out. He spoke to the school principal, put security on the door, made calls, threatened to sue, but the ball was already rolling; there was no turning back. The atmosphere in the house grew more tense; some employees whispered louder.

Mary Luni watched her, and Fernanda couldn’t even go out to the store without feeling watched. One night, Olga found her crying in the kitchen. “I can’t do this,” she told her. “I just wanted to work, take care of Emiliano, help my mom. I didn’t come here to interfere in anyone’s life, and now I’m everywhere like a climber. Don’t pay attention to them, Fernanda. You know who you are. Yes, but I don’t know if that’s enough anymore.”

She didn’t sleep that night. And the worst part was that it wasn’t because of Mauricio or the media. It was because of that feeling of losing control of her life, that fear that the story was being written without any questions, because even though she hadn’t done anything wrong, they were already judging her as if they had. And that, that hurt as if it were true. The scandal didn’t subside. Even though Mauricio had published his statement and his lawyer was in contact with some media outlets to ask them to withdraw the article, the story continued.

Social media was filled with memes, hurtful comments, and fabricated gossip. People said she must have gotten involved out of self-interest, while others said he probably had her before. No one knew anything, but everyone acted as if they did. Fernanda didn’t want to go out, not even in the garden. She felt watched, even inside the house. Marilu remained a statue. She didn’t speak to her, but her expression made it clear that she agreed with everything they said outside. Some employees treated her with a mixture of pity and contempt.

Even Olga, who was the only one who remained friendly, could no longer avoid the tension. And in the midst of all this, Mauricio was planning something else. He didn’t say anything, didn’t give any warning, just made a couple of calls, spoke to his communications manager, asked for a spot on a news program, and set the date. He was going to appear on television. Not to give details about his life, or to create drama, or to confirm anything. He just wanted to put a definitive stop to it. The interview was recorded on a Friday afternoon in a simple room, without exaggerated lighting or fake scenery.

The host was serious, one of the few who didn’t indulge in gossip. Mauricio chose him for that reason. Fernanda had no idea. She was at home helping Emiliano with a science homework assignment. When Olga’s cell phone rang, the woman answered and immediately looked at her with wide eyes. She turned on the TV. Channel 7. Why? Mr. Mauricio is speaking live. Fernanda froze, ran to the living room, grabbed the remote, changed the channel, and there was Mauricio sitting in front of the camera, dressed in a dark suit, without a tie, serious, calm, but with steady eyes.

He didn’t seem nervous, he didn’t seem angry, just determined. “Mr. Herrera,” the host began. “In recent days, there has been a lot of speculation about your personal life. There are images, rumors, even accusations on social media. What do you have to say about this?” Mauricio took a deep breath and looked straight into the camera. “Enough is enough. I’m tired of people thinking they can make things up about me, about my son, or about the people around me just because I have money or because my last name sounds familiar.”

The driver let him continue. The person they’re talking about isn’t a model, a public figure, or someone seeking fame. She’s a hardworking, honest woman who has been supporting my son in a way no one else has since we lost his mother. And no, we’re not in a relationship, but even if we were, it’s nobody’s business. Fernanda sat on the couch without moving. Her cheeks felt hot, her heart racing.

Hearing her name used like that, without any filters, without any hesitation, disarmed her and at the same time infuriated her. If you want to speak ill of me, go ahead. I’m used to it, but leave her alone. She didn’t do anything. She didn’t ask to be in this situation; she was just working. The driver nodded. Then he confirmed there was no romantic relationship. Mauricio stared at him. I confirm there is no relationship. And I also confirm that if there were, it wouldn’t be a cause for shame; it would be my decision. But for now, it’s disrespectful to her, to my son, and to my wife’s memory.

Fernanda turned off the TV not because she didn’t want to watch any more, but because she didn’t know what to do with what she’d just seen. She stood there in silence. Her heart was beating fast. She didn’t know whether to go look for him, lock herself in her room, or run away. It was too much exposure, too much weight on her shoulders. Minutes later, Mauricio walked through the front door. He was alone, without a jacket, without his cell phone in his hand. Olga greeted him. He nodded. He went straight to the study. Fernanda came down after a few minutes.

She walked slowly, with soft steps, as if she didn’t want to break anything. She reached the study door and knocked. “Can I come in?” Yes. She entered. Mauricio was sitting at the desk, his gaze fixed on an invisible point. When he saw her, he straightened slightly. “Did you see that?” Yes, I had to. Why didn’t you tell me? Because I knew you were going to say no, that I shouldn’t involve you, that I should let him in. Fernanda looked at him with narrowed eyes. And she was right.

Maybe. But I’m tired of staying silent every time someone makes things up. I’m not going to let them destroy you over something that isn’t even real. And what do you think is going to happen now? That they’re going to apologize? That they’re going to stop talking? No, but at least now they know I’m not going to stay silent. Fernanda sat down in the chair across from him. This changes everything. Why? Because now I’m not just the maid who lives in your house.

Now I’m the one who was on TV, the one you defended, the one everyone will see differently. Mauricio looked at her more calmly. That bothers you. It doesn’t scare me. Why? Fernanda lowered her head, rubbed her hands, took a deep breath. Because I don’t know how much more I can carry without breaking. Silence. Mauricio stood up, walked toward her, stood right in front of her. I don’t want you to carry this alone. I brought you in here. I opened the door.

If you decide to leave, I won’t stop you, but if you decide to stay, I’ll be there. She looked into his eyes, and there was no kiss, no hug, just a long, deep look, one of those that says more than any words. And that’s how it all stayed, neither close nor far, but nothing was the same as before. Two days had passed since the interview. The media scandal subsided a bit, but it didn’t disappear. Some gossip programs remained silent, others persisted.

The social media was divided. Some applauded Mauricio’s bravery. Others continued to attack Fernanda without even knowing her. She tried to continue with her routine, helping Emiliano, tidying the house, preparing things, avoiding excessive talk, but inside she wasn’t the same. She felt like she was walking on glass, and every step, however small, could break something. Mauricio wasn’t the same either. He was serious, more so than usual. He left for meetings, returned late, and they spoke little, but it was clear something was on his mind.

Until one Thursday night, when Fernanda was in the kitchen drinking tea, he appeared. He didn’t walk right in. He stood in the doorway for a few seconds, as if hesitating. Then he spoke. “You have one minute.” She nodded. Of course. They walked to the dining room. No one else. He was nearby. Only the ticking of the wall clock could be heard. “I’ve been thinking about something,” he said, sitting across from her. “I know you’re uncomfortable, that you don’t like everything that’s happening, that your mom is far away, that you have no privacy, that this is overwhelming you.” Fernanda lowered her gaze without saying anything.

“And I know you didn’t ask for it, so I want to really help you, without you feeling trapped.” She looked at him doubtfully. “Help me like you did with your mom. I know she’s in a place that isn’t comfortable. I know she needs constant medical attention, and I also know that because you’re here, you can’t be there like you used to. And I have a house, a small apartment, but in good condition. It’s near a private clinic. I want to give it to you for you and her, so you can be well, without rent, without worrying about expenses, with everything paid.”

Fernanda looked at him without blinking. Are you offering me a house? Yes. Not as a gift, but as support. So you don’t have to break yourself in two, so she’s safe. So you’re at peace. She fell silent. Her head was spinning. It was something huge, too much. And what do you want in return? Mauricio frowned. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Just for you to accept, to let me help you. And what am I to you? You’re someone important, someone I respect, someone I want to see well.

Fernanda stood up slowly. Do you know how all this sounds? Like? As if you’re buying peace of mind. As if you’re accommodating me to keep me quiet. So I’ll stay quiet, grateful, indebted. Mauricio stood up too. That’s not true. No. So why didn’t you offer it to me before? Why just now? After everything got out of hand, after you went on TV saying you’re defending me, what’s next, Mauricio? A car, a card, a pretty dress so they don’t see me as the servant who meddled in your life.

Don’t say that. Well, tell me what you want me to think. What am I to you? A responsibility? A woman who gave you affection and now you don’t know how to handle? Mauricio ran his hand over his face. He was upset, confused, hurt. I want to help you. Why do I care about you? Is that so wrong? Yes. If you don’t see me as an equal. Yes. They fell silent. “I don’t want to depend on anyone,” she said, lowering her voice. “I don’t want my mom to see me arrive with a house that isn’t mine.”

I don’t want people to be right. To say I came here looking to stay. You know better. Yes, I know that, but the world doesn’t. So what? Are you going to live your life thinking about what other people say? No, but I’m not going to live it with a lie that resembles the truth either. Fernanda crossed her arms. Mauricio looked at her, frustrated. So what? You’d rather keep splitting yourself in two? I’d rather split myself in a thousand before feeling bought. Silence again.

Mauricio looked at her as he had never looked at her before. No longer with admiration, no longer with tenderness, but with sadness, because he realized that although he wanted to do the right thing, the way he was doing it was pushing her away. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said. “I know, but you did.” She turned and went into the hallway. She walked slowly, her eyes full of rage and the desire to cry. She went up to her room and quietly closed the door.

And he was left there alone with a proposal he’d made from the bottom of his heart, but which ended up shattering the little he’d managed to build. It was Monday, and everything seemed peaceful. Fernanda had slept poorly. She woke up with her mind reeling from the argument she’d had with Mauricio. She felt confused, but above all hurt. It had been hard for her to accept that something inside her was beginning to trust him. And just when that was happening, it occurred to him to offer her a house as if he couldn’t help her without making her feel small, as if helping her meant having to save her.

But beyond that, there was something even stranger. From the moment she came down for breakfast, the atmosphere was tense. No one had said much. Marilou didn’t even look at her. Olga tried to act normal, but she visibly felt uncomfortable. Fernanda noticed. Her ears were ringing. Her instinct told her something was brewing, something didn’t smell right. By mid-morning, Mauricio wasn’t home. Emiliano had gone to school. Fernanda took the opportunity to organize some papers in the study.

She concentrated so hard that she didn’t even notice when Marilou burst in. “The Lord wants to see you,” she said tersely, without looking at her in her office. “Did something happen?” “I don’t know, but hurry.” Fernanda wiped her hands with a rag, straightened her sweater, and went to the office. The door was ajar. “Everything? Can I come in?” “Yes,” Mauricio said from inside, “Really?” With her gaze fixed on her desk, Fernanda entered, and seeing the expression on her face, she knew something was seriously wrong.

“Everything okay?” He didn’t answer immediately. He took out a small black case and placed it on the table. He opened it. Inside was a necklace. Not just any necklace. It was delicate, expensive, shiny, the kind only businessmen’s wives wear at formal dinners. “Do you know it?” Fernanda looked at it and shook her head. “I’ve never seen it before. It was in your room, in your nightstand drawer.” Fernanda took a step back as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over her.

What? Marilu found it this morning while cleaning. Fernanda froze, then reacted. That’s not possible. I haven’t touched anything that isn’t mine. I would never enter someone else’s room, much less take something like that. Mauricio looked at her with a strange mix of anger and confusion. I’m not saying you did it, I just want to understand what happened. Fernanda felt tight inside. Are you doubting me? I’m trying to be fair. Right after all this, do you think I’d be capable?

I don’t know. I don’t want to believe it. But someone put it there, Fernanda, and it was in your room. She crossed her arms, her hands shaking. And if someone else put it there, didn’t you think of it? Mauricio didn’t respond. Fernanda looked at him with pain, as if something inside her had broken, as if she couldn’t believe that after all he wasn’t on her side. Who else knew where you keep that? Only the trusted staff. And if someone wants to make me look bad, who?

I don’t know, but it wasn’t me. And you know it. Mauricio ran his hand over his face. He didn’t know what to think. Everything was strange, unexpected, it didn’t add up. I’ll investigate, he finally said. But in the meantime, what? Maybe you should rest for a few days, go stay with your mom. Just while this gets sorted out. Fernanda felt like she was being slapped in the face. Are you kicking me out? No, I just need time to see what happened. I’m not making decisions. I just want clarity. Clarity. I don’t need clarity.

I know who I am. You, you don’t. And without another word, she turned and left. She went up to her room, stuffed her clothes into a backpack without folding anything. She hailed a taxi. Olga saw her and wanted to speak to her, but Fernanda raised her hand. “No, Olga, don’t tell me anything. Just take care of Emiliano. This is wrong, Fernanda, I believe you. Thank you, but that’s not enough.” Marilu watched her from the hallway. She didn’t say anything, but her face gave her away.

She was satisfied. The taxi arrived. Fernanda got out with her backpack on her shoulder and walked out the door without looking back. Mauricio didn’t get out, didn’t stop her, didn’t say goodbye, and that was what hurt her the most: that he knew what she was like, that he knew her, that he defended her in front of everyone, but not when she needed him most. Three days passed since Fernanda left. The house was never the same. Her footsteps were no longer heard, nor her soft voice speaking to Emiliano, nor the sound of her laughter when the child did something silly.

Everything was too quiet. Mauricio sensed it. He said nothing. He didn’t explain why he didn’t stop her, why he didn’t trust her. He didn’t even explain it well to himself. He just kept telling himself that he couldn’t act on impulse, that he needed proof, clarity, a logical answer. But the truth is, something inside him broke when he saw her leave, her eyes full of disappointment. Emiliano didn’t understand much; he only noticed that Fernanda was no longer there. He asked Olga when she would return.

No one knew what to answer. “She’s with her mom,” they would tell him. “But why?” “Because I do.” The boy would get angry, cross his arms, and lock himself in his room. Mauricio tried to distract him, take him to the park, play with him, but it wasn’t the same. Emiliano noticed he was distant, confused. And one afternoon, while they were putting together a puzzle in the living room, the boy accidentally blurted something out. “Marilu is a gossip.” Mauricio looked at him. “Why do you say that?” “Because I saw her in Fernanda’s room.” The other day when Fernanda wasn’t there, when she came in on Monday morning with something in her hand, like a small black box.

I was playing in the hallway. He didn’t see me. Mauricio remained silent. He didn’t react immediately. A thousand things went through his head. He stood slowly, went to the kitchen, and called Marilu. “Did you go into Fernanda’s room on Monday?” “Yes,” she answered without flinching. I went to clean. “At what time?” “At 9, like always.” Did you come in with something in your hands? Not that I remember. Are you sure? Yes. Mauricio looked at her. His tone was the same as always, but something in his expression didn’t add up.

He lacked confidence. That dry confidence with which he used to speak to everyone. The kid says he saw you come in with a black box that Fernanda wasn’t carrying. Marilu lowered her gaze for a second. Barely a blink, but enough. She must have been confused. Mauricio didn’t answer. He turned and went to the office. He closed the door and dialed the head of security. I want the recordings from Monday from 8 to 11. Hallway entrance, main hallway, staircase, and Fernanda’s room.

Everything. Two hours later, she had the USB in her hand. She sat down in front of her laptop, opened the files, and scrolled through the cameras. It didn’t take long to find it. Marilou. 8:45 in the morning. Leaving the kitchen with a small black box in her hand, she walked straight to Fernanda’s room. That time. Fernanda was at school with Emiliano. She watched the video three times, then leaned back in her chair, covered her face with her hands, and sighed deeply. It wasn’t a surprise; she’d suspected it, but seeing it with her own eyes hurt more.

The next day he summoned her. Marilou entered the office as always, serious, upright, careful with her image. “Did you want to talk to me, sir?” Mauricio didn’t say anything at first, just played the video. He showed it to her without saying a word. She watched it. She stiffened. She didn’t try to deny anything; her face just blurred. “Why did you do it? I did it for you, for the house, for the order we’ve always had here. For me. She doesn’t belong here.”

You don’t know her well. That woman is a problem. We were already seeing that. The media, the pressure. I couldn’t let her continue to interfere in your life. You’re vulnerable. Mauricio interrupted her. And that’s why you thought it was a good idea to make her look like a thief, to break into her room and plant something that wasn’t even yours. I was protecting this home. I did what you didn’t want to do. Mauricio stood up. He was upset, but more than that, he was disappointed. I don’t need anyone thinking for me, much less someone who has done more for this house in months than you have in years.

Marilu swallowed. So, are you going to fire me? Yes. After everything I did for you, after everything you did against me. She didn’t say anything else. She turned around and left. That same afternoon, she packed her things. There were no goodbyes. No one said a word. Olga looked at her with disgust. The chauffeur didn’t even want to help her with her bags. She walked out the door without looking back. And although Mauricio felt a little calmer, he also knew he couldn’t undo the damage.

Fernanda was no longer there, and he had let her go. Mauricio didn’t sleep that night, nor the next. After finding out about Marilu and seeing her leave his house with the same false dignity she always displayed, he sat alone in the living room, staring at a fixed point, as if the answer to everything lay there. But there was no answer. The only person who could understand him, who could hear everything he was stuck with, was Fernanda. And she was no longer there.

And worst of all, she’d gone along believing he doubted her, because yes, even though he hadn’t directly accused her, he let her go without defending her, because deep down, for a few seconds, doubt won out, and that hurt more than any lie. On the third day, he took his car and drove to the neighborhood where Fernanda’s mother lived. He didn’t call anyone, he didn’t send anyone, he didn’t make a grand entrance. He arrived alone, knocked on the door, and waited. Mrs. Lidia came out, sitting in her wheelchair with a blanket over her legs and a surprised face.

You? Good afternoon. Is Fernanda home? Yes, but I don’t think I want to see you. Mauricio looked down. I know, but I need to talk to her, even for a few minutes. The woman hesitated, then turned and shouted, “Fanda, is that him?” Footsteps sounded from the back of the apartment. Fernanda appeared in the doorway wearing the same sweater she wore at home, her hair tied back, effortless, and her face serious. She wasn’t angry, she was hurt, and that showed even more. “What are you doing here? I came to talk to you.” There was nothing to talk about.

“Yes, there is.” She looked at him for a few seconds, then opened the door wider and said, “Come in.” The apartment was small, but tidy. It smelled of homemade food, freshly laundered clothes, the kind of place that feels lived in. Fernanda sat down in a chair. Mauricio stood in front of her. “Marilu was the one who put the necklace in your room.” Fernanda didn’t say anything. “I saw the cameras. The boy saw her. I confronted her. She admitted it. And that to Mique.”

He swallowed. “I want to apologize. You already did. Not enough. It’s not about you saying it. It’s about the fact that when I most needed you to believe in me, you didn’t.” Mauricio lowered his gaze. “You’re right.” Fernanda took a deep breath. She crossed her arms. “So now what? Are you asking me to come back? To act like nothing happened? No, I don’t expect everything to go back to the way it was. I just came to tell you that I failed, that I was wrong, that even though I knew who you were, I let myself be overcome by fear, by doubts, by everything that happens when you don’t even trust yourself.”

Fernanda looked at him, her eyes filled with unshed tears. “You don’t know what it was like for me to leave that house knowing you were looking at me as if I could do something like that. After everything we shared, after how I cared for your son as if he were my own, I know it, and that’s why it hurts so much. And what do you expect? Me to tell you it’s over? That everything can be fixed with apologies. No, I just wanted to look you in the eyes and tell you that if you ever decide to come back, things will be different, that this time I won’t let you go, I won’t hesitate, I won’t let you down.”

Fernanda looked at him, not with anger, but with sadness. You know what the worst part is? What? A part of me wanted to believe you from the first moment, but I don’t know if I can anymore. Mauricio felt a hole in his chest, the same hole that remained when he lost his wife, only now it hurt differently. It hurt because of what could have been but wasn’t. How is Emiliano? Does he miss you? Fernanda lowered her gaze. Me too. There was a long, heavy silence. Mauricio approached slowly.

I’m not here to pressure you or convince you. I just came to tell you that if one day you decide to give me another chance, I’ll be here. Fernanda didn’t respond. He nodded, turned around, and left the apartment. When he closed the door, Fernanda sat alone, her eyes watering and her heart in pieces. Because sometimes, no matter how much you love someone, there are things that just can’t be put back together again. The house felt huge without Fernanda.

Every creak of the floor, every echo of a footstep, could be heard. Mauricio was still there, but not completely there, as if an important part of his world had disappeared. Emiliano asked if he would return. He asked a lot, but no one answered clearly. The mornings were silent; breakfast had become a routine routine: bread, juice, cereal, not a laugh, not a thank you for breakfast. The boy ate while staring straight ahead. Mauricio watched him out of the corner of his eye, as if searching for something that was no longer there. On those mornings, the emptiness he left was felt.

Fernanda, on the other hand, returned with her mother to that apartment, which now felt even smaller. Routine returned with its weight: caring for her mother, paying for treatments, looking for income, trying to sleep without broken dreams. And the apartment, once a refuge, now felt like a prison. Every wall reminded her of the big house she abandoned, the child she left behind, the silence she left behind. Mauricio tried to fill the void by doing the same old thing: meetings, get-togethers, dinners, trips. His schedule became a shield against thinking, but inside, something creaked.

It wasn’t pain for Fernanda; it was deeper. Remorse, regret, the certainty that he’d let go of something valuable out of fear. One afternoon, Emiliano approached him as they were reviewing a dinosaur book together. “Dad, Fernanda doesn’t love me anymore.” Mauricio blinked. The book fell from his hands. He was silent for a long second. “Of course she does, son. Fernanda loves you very much. And why doesn’t she come back?” There was no response, only silence. The boy lowered his head and opened the book to another page.

Mauricio hugged him, but said nothing more. He had no answers. As night fell, the house emptied. Emiliano was asleep. Mauricio sat on the sofa, alone, lit by a floor lamp. He looked at the living room where Fernanda used to be, organizing papers with a cup of tea, talking softly to the boy. That room now seemed like an empty stage set. Fernanda spent the night awake. Her mother was asleep. She sat in a chair looking at a photo of Mauri and Emiliano at the gala.

The boy pointing at a model. That photo was the trigger for everything. He wanted to tear it up, but he only caressed it sadly. He remembered the night, the fear, the promise not to let her fly, and he felt something break inside him. At dawn, they both woke up with a strange feeling. Mauricio opened his eyes and took a few seconds to focus on the room. Emiliano was still sleeping in the bed next to him. On the nightstand, a folded drawing was the one he made of the park with the dog.

He took it between his fingers, unfolded it, looked at it, and then slipped it into his pocket unwillingly, as if doing so helped him feel that something was still alive. Fernanda opened the curtain. A ray of light crossed the room and cast its shadow on the wall. She breathed and approached the window. Outside, street vendors began to be heard, traffic, the city waking up. She closed her eyes, listened to his heartbeat. He was alive, but tired, wondering if he still had the strength to open doors again.

During those days, no one called. Neither Mauricio nor she took the next step. No messages, no visits, no attempts. Silence became a wall between them. The boy asked more and more, but the answers were evasive, vague promises. He’ll be back soon. And the boy settled for waiting, like someone waiting for someone who might never return. Mauricio realized that this passive silence was killing him, that it wasn’t honorable or brave, just cowardly.

But guilt wouldn’t let him move forward. He was afraid she’d say, “I don’t want to see you.” Or worse, that she’d say nothing and close the door. Fernanda felt like silence was her shield. She used it to keep from crying, to keep from calling, to keep from insisting, to protect herself from disappointment, but it was a shield that isolated her more than it protected her. Two weeks passed like this, both lives running parallel without touching. The silence reflected what neither wanted to admit.

A part of them was broken, and as long as they didn’t confront it, it would remain so. The house remained silent, the apartment as well, and they both knew that only one bold step could break down the wall, but neither of them took the step. Silence became the most burdensome character in the story. Only time would tell who would overcome it. Fernanda remained in her apartment, locked in a bubble of noiseless routine. Her mother napped in her bed. The sound of the fan was the only thing that broke the silence.

She was sitting at the table reviewing medical bills, but her mind was elsewhere. She was thinking about Mauricio, her son, the void he left behind. She was thinking about how easily everything had been shattered and how difficult it would be to rebuild it. What she didn’t know was that someone was watching her from afar. It was an anonymous phone call that told her there was something more behind the death of Alejandra, Mauricio’s wife. A simple message. It was no accident.

She investigated Renata. At first, she thought it was spam, but something about the secure call made her look. She got up and did something that scared her. She contacted the lawyer who had handled the death case just to ask discreet questions. She didn’t want to give anything away yet, but enough to shake her sleepy head. One rainy afternoon, while she was with her mother in the living room watching TV, she called the doctor who handled the case. She explained that there were details that needed to be reviewed.

The doctor listened, became concerned, and told her there was a witness who never spoke, a nurse who cared for Alejandra in her final days. That same night, Fernanda made a short call. She wouldn’t say who sent her. She only made it clear that she needed an anonymous interview and a private chat. Days later, she received an envelope with a phone number. That voice, with an uncertain accent, called out a name. Renata was at the house that night. She said the nurse saw her arguing with Alejandra before the event, that the words weren’t kind, that there were threats.

Fernanda felt her ears ache. She always saw Alejandra’s death as an accident, a closed duel out of respect. She’d never wanted to pry, but now she had a clue, a lead that felt like justice. She couldn’t keep quiet. She called Sergio, Mauricio’s assistant, and discreetly left him the information. She only asked him to investigate it if he could, not with cameras or hidden cameras, only legal reviews, witnesses, documents, so that it wouldn’t be said that it came from her, to protect the truth without blowing anything up yet.

The next day, Mauricio arrived at his studio. He received a message. A call from Sergio. Something was wrong with that case. His face turned pale, tense, and uneasy. He knew something he’d promised was closed was open again. They sat in silence, staring at their cell phones, each with the door half-open to something that would hurt if it were suddenly opened. They both knew what was coming could change everything, but they also knew it couldn’t continue to be ignored. That night, Fernanda went to bed and closed her eyes.

He listened to his mother’s breathing, how the silence seemed heavier, how that hidden truth stirred everything in him. Mauricio, at home the same, looked at the family portrait from the gala. The boy, pointing to the emptiness behind the image, knew that an important secret was rising from the depths of time and that if it came to light, no one would be the same. The clock struck midnight. The two remained awake, without speaking, not knowing when they would broach this subject. But knowing there was no turning back, because sometimes the most dangerous truth is the one everyone prefers to forget, Fernanda had decided not to tell anyone about what she discovered about Renata.

He had spoken on the phone, collected fragments, taken notes in an old notebook. He didn’t want to upset anyone without proof, didn’t want to hurt anyone, just to know. He understood that this matter was delicate and that if it came to light, it could shatter more than his silence: it could destroy a reputation, open wounds, reopen a duel that seemed settled. Meanwhile, Mauricio received a call from Sergio. A nervous voice told him he had found something unexpected: police files, trial notes, unpublished testimony. That something didn’t add up, that someone he had always taken for granted.

He had proof of being there that night at the party where Alejandra died, that same party Mauricio had organized at his house, and that that person was Renata. Mauricio felt a chill. He couldn’t understand how someone so invisible could have been there. The image of his angry, elegant ex-girlfriend, hinting at threats to his wife. Everything began to fit together like pieces of a puzzle he’d ignored until Fernanda started asking questions. He called Fernanda with a trembling hand. “I need to talk to you.”

She treated him from her small home, surrounded by medication papers with her mother asleep. She listened without interrupting. I got something from what you told me. You found something more than just something. I’m reviewing the recordings of the trial. There are inconsistencies. There’s a cross-reference of calls to Renata that night. The nurse testified that she saw her escape from the room after 9:00, and there’s a witness who didn’t testify. An extra photographer was covering the event. Fernanda held her breath. That would change everything.

Yes. And it’s not just that. The nurse now has testimony and wants to testify. There are audio recordings, private recordings that show an argument with threats. Previously, they weren’t accepted because Renata was a close friend of the judge, but now, there’s a new witness. Fernanda felt everything spinning, not just her life, but everything she thought she knew about the Herrera family, about Alejandra’s death, about the closure of that pain, was crumbling. “And what are you going to do?” she asked in a low voice.

I want this done right, not a cheap scandal, for justice to be done. If you agree, I want to present everything together, but I want your approval before moving forward. Fernanda took a deep breath. She felt fear, responsibility, anger, and something she hadn’t expected. Hope. Yes, whatever happens, let it be done with work, with evidence, with legality. I don’t want it to seem like revenge. But I do believe it must be done. He thanked her without words. Relief was evident in his eyes.

The next day, preparations began: discreet calls to lawyers, a meeting with the nurse who agreed to testify, a review of files. As everything moved carefully, silence ceased to be a tyrant. It became a tool. The secret had a name, dates, voices, evidence. Fernanda, from her modest home, felt she was no longer alone, that although the pain was still there, what lay ahead was an open road. On the other side, Mauricio sat in his study, looking at an old photograph of his wife laughing with their child.

That image was no longer just a memory; it was a true promise of closing a chapter with dignity. The bomb would no longer explode; it would be activated in the form of clarity. And in that clarity, the foundations that had been shattered could be rebuilt with honesty. And although what was coming was intense, painful, even dangerous, they both knew it was the right thing to do and that they could no longer turn back. Morning arrived quietly, only that dense calm that precedes something important. Mauricio entered the meeting room with a black folder.

Inside were the documents, statements, and evidence they had painstakingly gathered over the course of days. His lawyer, steadfast, accompanied him. From the screen on the wall, the nurse who agreed to testify officially at his side connected, clear, dates, witnesses, audio recordings. Fernanda arrived walking slowly. Unlike him, she didn’t wear an expensive suit or hide nerves behind a stern face. She wore simple, solid clothes, like a shield that no longer needed disguise. She sat at the table next to the lawyer. She didn’t speak, but she was present, very present.

When the legal proceedings began, the judge called her as a protected witness. Her voice was firm. She recounted what she saw: the argument, the threats, the suspicious call to Renata before the party, her departure from the room. It wasn’t drama, it was the truth. And each sentence fell heavily on those present. Mauricio listened from his seat. He glanced at Fernanda once, just once, not with pride or gratitude, but with something deeper. A look that said, “Thank you for not keeping quiet, for not letting me be left alone carrying this, for teaching me that there are things that can’t be hidden with money or silence.” When she finished testifying, she leaned slightly, and he squeezed her hand under the table.

It was quick, no one moved, but that gesture resonated. It was part of the closing of this chapter. Hours later, Renata was summoned. There were no shouts, no loud denials. All the judge heard was, “I denied I was there. I admit it. I was afraid.” It sounded faint, barely audible. And then the condition. I did it out of closeness to the judge and to avoid scandal. The courtroom fell silent. The queen of her world was now just a name in shame. The judge’s decision was immediate.

Initiate proceedings, internal investigations, review evidence, dismiss charges, open a formal trial—all with respect, calm but firm justice. The boy, meanwhile, was with his grandmother for a few days. When he returned home, he was hesitant. Mauricio was waiting for him at the entrance with simple plans: take him to the park, play soccer with him, ask for esquites on the street. Nothing extraordinary, just normalcy. But that normalcy told the boy there was hope. Later, Mauricio left him with Fernanda.

He really looked for her. He went down to see her in the backyard. The house, finally, was no longer a prison for her. She looked at him without questions. She only waited in her gaze. Today it all ended, he said, sitting across from her. It was that simple, she replied. No, but he was right. In that, no more silence, no more fear, no more calculations. They fell silent. And now what? Now I don’t know exactly. He threw it away. But with you, I want to give it a good try. Fernanda smiled without flaunting it.

He didn’t beat around the bush. Just one thing. What? No more tests, no more silences, just talking. When something happens, we’ll talk. He nodded. They looked at each other for a couple of seconds, as if those two simultaneous words—we’ll talk and we want to try—broke down the wall. And most powerful of all, there was no kiss, just confidence in what was coming if they walked together. In the following days, life returned in small steps. Fernanda took her mother to the clinic. Mauricio began to include her in his world without disguise.

He invited the grandmother to school to explain what had happened. He introduced Fernanda to friends. Like a brave woman who helped bring closure to her family. There was no ostentatious romantic gesture, only dignity. One evening, Mauricio and Fernanda had dinner in the garden. Emiliano played under a warm light. There were no high-sounding promises or grandiose plans. Just an idea: to move forward together if possible. She put her arm around him so he could see the boy’s play. He responded with a look of relief, and in that simple picture, the story ended as it began: a boy, a brave woman, and a man willing to rebuild everything with respect and truth.