My name is Eduardo Méndez, and exactly one year ago, I was a walking corpse. I had bank accounts in Switzerland, properties on the Costa del Sol, and a penthouse in the Salamanca district with views across Madrid. But I also had stage four lung cancer and a calendar in my mind that marked a relentless countdown: forty-two days.

That November afternoon, a fine, cold rain fell on Madrid, that drizzle that chills you to the bone. I left the clinic of Dr. Rodrigo, my lifelong friend, with the death sentence ringing in my ears. I refused my driver. I needed to feel the cold, I needed to feel something other than that terrifying emptiness in my chest.

I wandered aimlessly, leaving behind the luxury boutiques of Serrano Street, crossing Paseo de la Castellana, and venturing into neighborhoods where the facades weren’t marble, but exposed brick and laundry hanging out to dry. My leather-soled shoes slipped on the wet pavement. I don’t know how long I walked, perhaps hours, until my legs, weakened by illness, begged for respite in a small square in a working-class neighborhood, maybe in Vallecas or Usera.

I sat down on a stone bench, ignoring the dampness. And there she was.

It was nothing more than a small bundle huddled against the wall of a bakery, seeking the warmth escaping from the ventilation grilles. The smell of freshly baked bread contrasted cruelly with its appearance. I approached. Its hair was as black as a raven’s wing, matted, and its face was smeared with soot. But its eyes… My God, those deep, black eyes pierced my soul.

“Are you hungry?” I asked her. My voice sounded strange, unused to kindness. The girl nodded slightly, still looking at me suspiciously. “And your parents?” “I don’t have any,” she whispered. Her accent was local, a true Madrid accent. “No one? Grandparents? Aunts and uncles?” “No one. I’m all alone.”

That word, alone , echoed in the empty plaza and bounced inside me. I was surrounded by employees, partners, and lawyers, but I was more alone than that girl. “Me too,” I confessed, sitting down next to her on the dirty ground. “My name is Eduardo.” “Valeria.”

I bought two ham sandwiches and two juices at the bakery. We ate them in silence. Watching her eat, with that urgency, with that fear that the food would disappear, broke something inside me. And then, madness. Or the extreme lucidity of someone who has nothing to lose.

“Valeria,” I said, brushing the crumbs off my suit. “Would you like to come with me?” She tensed. The street teaches you to distrust quickly. “Where?” “To my house. I have a big room. Heating. Food.” “Are you bad?” she asked directly, her hand in her pocket as if she were holding a knife or a rock. “No. I’m dying, Valeria. I don’t have much time left. And I don’t want to be alone.” She scrutinized me. Children can see the truth better than adults. “How long?” “A week,” I lied, or maybe I didn’t. Maybe it was all I could endure. “Do you want to be my daughter for a week? I’ll give you everything you need. Just… keep me company.”

Valeria thought about it. She looked at her torn sneakers, then at the dark street ahead, and finally at my eyes. “Okay,” she said. And she held out a small, dirty hand. When her hand squeezed mine, I felt an electric shock. Not of pain, but of life.

We hailed a taxi. The driver gave us a dirty look because of the girl’s appearance, but a fifty-euro note silenced his protests. As we drove along the M-30 towards the city center, Valeria pressed her nose against the window, fascinated by the city lights that, for her, had always seemed so far away.

Upon arriving at my stately building on Velázquez Street, the doorman nearly fainted. But it was upon entering the penthouse that reality hit us. Carmen, my housekeeper of twenty years, a Galician woman with a strong character but a heart of gold, came out into the hallway. “Don Eduardo! We weren’t expecting you…” Her gaze fell upon Valeria. “Who is this creature? Good heavens, she’s a wreck!” “Her name is Valeria, Carmen. And she’s going to stay with us.” “Stay? But sir… where did she come from? Are you sure? She could have lice, diseases…” “Carmen!” My voice boomed, surprising even myself with its force. “Prepare the guest room, the blue one. And tell Rosa to make a proper dinner. Stew soup, potato omelet, anything, but hot and plentiful. And run her a bath.” Carmen, seeing the determination in my eyes, and perhaps the infinite sadness that used to inhabit them, nodded and crossed herself before taking the girl away.

That night, we had dinner together in the mahogany dining room, a table for twelve occupied by only two. Valeria, already bathed and wearing flannel pajamas that Carmen had found (they belonged to my niece, may she rest in peace), seemed like a different person. Smaller, more vulnerable. She ate the potato omelet with her eyes closed, savoring every bite. “Is it good?” I asked. “It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted,” she replied with her mouth full. I, who hadn’t had an appetite for months, ate. And the food tasted heavenly.

After dinner, I walked her to her room. She was amazed by the four-poster bed. “Is all this for me?” “Yes, Valeria. Rest.” “Eduardo…” she called as I was about to turn off the light. “Are you really going to die?” I sat on the edge of the bed. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m sick.” “Does it hurt?” “Sometimes. But today… today it hurts less.” She snuggled under the duvet. “Thank you for the omelet. And for the bed.” “Goodnight, daughter,” I whispered. The words came out on their own.

I went to my office, but I couldn’t work. For the first time in months, I didn’t think about my will or the sharp pain in my chest. I thought about how I needed to buy chocolate cereal for breakfast.

The next morning, I woke up without my usual cough. The sun streamed in through the curtains. I went downstairs to the kitchen and found Valeria and Rosa, my Andalusian cook, laughing. Rosa was showing her how to dip churros in hot chocolate. “Good morning, Papa Eduardo!” Valeria shouted. She immediately covered her mouth, startled by her slip of the tongue. I felt a lump in my throat, but I smiled. “Good morning, Valeria.”

That day we went shopping. El Corte Inglés, the shops on Serrano Street. People stared at us: the businessman of the year and a little girl jumping for joy with every bag. I bought her dresses, coats, and most importantly: a bicycle. “I’ve never had a bike,” she confessed. We went to Retiro Park. Despite my exhaustion, I ran after her, pushing her, teaching her how to balance. “Don’t let go, Eduardo!” “You can do it on your own now! Look!” Valeria was pedaling, her laughter echoing among the ancient trees, and I… I was breathing. My lungs, those traitors that were killing me, seemed to be filling with fresh air for the first time in years.

Three days passed. Three days of laughter, board games by the fireplace, watching Disney movies until we fell asleep on the sofa. On the fourth day, I had a checkup with Rodrigo. I took Valeria with me. “Who is this young lady?” the doctor asked, surprised. “She’s my daughter, Rodrigo. Valeria.” While he was running the tests, Rodrigo frowned repeatedly. He checked the monitors, banged on the machines. “What’s wrong?” I asked, fearing the worst. “I don’t understand, Eduardo. Your oxygen levels have gone up. The inflammation around the tumor has decreased. It’s… impossible.” I looked at Valeria, who was in the waiting room drawing in a notebook. “It’s not impossible, Rodrigo. It’s medicine for the soul.”

We went home celebrating with ice cream, even though it was November. But happiness is fragile, and fate has a macabre sense of humor. When I reached the building entrance, the doorman stopped me. “Don Eduardo, there’s a woman waiting for you in the lobby. She says she’s here for the girl.” I felt like a bucket of ice water had been thrown on me. Valeria hid behind my leg, trembling. “It’s her,” she whispered. “It’s Aunt Mariana. The wicked woman.”

We went inside. A woman in her forties, looking disheveled but dressed with pretension, was examining a Ming vase as if calculating its price. “Well, well. So this is where the little rat goes,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her ice-cold eyes. “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” I demanded, stepping in front of Valeria. “I’m Mariana Vázquez. Valeria’s aunt. And her legal guardian. I’ve come to take her.” “No!” Valeria shouted. “I don’t want to go with you! You’ll hit me and lock me up!” Mariana let out a dry laugh. “Children have vivid imaginations. Mr. Méndez, I appreciate you taking care of my niece these past few days when she… ran away. But now she’s coming home.” “She says she has no one,” I retorted, feeling my anger rising. “Her mother died at birth. Her father… well, her father died four years ago. I’m her only family.” I have the papers.

He pulled out a grimy folder and handed it to me. Sure enough, there was a birth certificate and guardianship documents. But something about his demeanor, the way he was looking at the expensive furniture in my house instead of the little girl, gave me a bad feeling. “You’re not taking anyone today,” I said in my most ruthless negotiator’s voice. “I’ll call my lawyer. If those papers are real, we’ll talk.” “Be careful, Mr. Méndez. That could be considered kidnapping. I’m giving you 24 hours. I’ll be back with the police tomorrow.”

Mariana left, leaving a trail of cheap perfume and a sense of threat. Valeria was sobbing uncontrollably on the sofa. “Don’t let her take me, Eduardo. Please. She forces me to beg for money on the subway. And if I don’t have enough, she won’t give me dinner.” I hugged her tightly, so tightly I was afraid I’d break her. “I swear on my life, Valeria. No one is taking you from here.”

I called Ricardo, the best lawyer in Madrid and my right-hand man. He arrived in half an hour. “The situation is complicated, Eduardo. If she’s her biological aunt and has guardianship, the law is on her side. Unless we can prove she’s incompetent or that she’s abusing her.” “Investigate her. I want to know everything. From what she has for breakfast to who she talks to. And find the girl’s father, Tomás Jiménez. I want to know what happened to him.”

That night I didn’t sleep. I sat by Valeria’s bed, watching over her as she slept, armed only with my willpower and the agonizing fear of losing the only thing that had made me want to live. The next morning, Ricardo returned with a face that foreshadowed trouble. “Eduardo, sit down.” “What have you found?” “Mariana Vázquez has a record for fraud and petty theft, but nothing serious enough to guarantee we can take custody away from her quickly. But… I’ve found something about the father, Tomás Jiménez.” “What?” “Tomás was a bricklayer. He worked for a subcontractor on one of your projects, Eduardo. At the Picasso Tower II. The world stopped.” I remembered that construction site. There was an accident. A crane malfunctioned. “He died in the workplace accident four years ago,” Ricardo continued. “Your company paid a huge settlement. Three hundred thousand euros.” “Who was paid?” “His daughter’s legal guardian. Mariana Vázquez.”

My blood boiled. That woman had collected the death benefit from her father’s death, money meant for Valeria’s future, and had spent it all while the girl lived on the streets begging. “Damn it!” I shouted, slamming my fist on the table. “She spent the money and threw the girl away!” “There’s more, Eduardo. In the human resources file, we found a box of Tomás’s unclaimed personal belongings. Mariana took the check, but she didn’t want anything to do with her brother-in-law’s ‘junk’.” Ricardo placed an old shoebox on my desk. Inside were a cheap watch, a worn wallet, and a sealed envelope. On the envelope, in shaky handwriting, it read: For my little girl Valeria, in case I’m ever gone.

My hands trembled as I opened it. I called Valeria. She had to know. We sat in the conservatory. I explained who her father was, that he had worked building the buildings I designed. That he was a good man. “Did he write this for me?” she asked, touching the paper as if it were sacred. Since she could barely read, I read it to her.

“My princess Valeria. If you’re reading this, it means your dad is gone. I work hard, climbing high on the scaffolding, so you can fly even higher. I want you to study, to be happy. Everything I earn is for you. Be careful with your Aunt Mariana; you know she’s no good, but we have no one else. If anything happens to me, look for good people. The world is full of good people, even if they sometimes hide. I love you more than life itself. Dad.”

We cried. Both of us. An old millionaire and an orphaned girl, united by the words of a ghost. “Your father loved you very much, Valeria. And he worked for me. Somehow… I feel like I owed you this.” “Eduardo…” she said, wiping away her tears. “Do you think my father sent you to save me?” “I don’t know, darling. But I think you’ve saved me.”

The legal battle was fierce. Mariana went back to the police, but Ricardo obtained an emergency court order by presenting the letter and the evidence of the inheritance embezzlement. The judge gave us a date for a preliminary hearing in 48 hours. But my body decided it was too much of a stressful situation. The night before the trial, I collapsed. I couldn’t breathe. The pain in my chest was unbearable. Carmen called an ambulance. “No!” I tried to scream. “I have to go to the trial tomorrow!” But darkness swallowed me.

I woke up in a hospital room, hooked up to tubes and monitors. The rhythmic beeping was all I could hear. Rodrigo was beside me, looking worried. “What happened?” I croaked. “Respiratory collapse, Eduardo. You were about to…” “What time is it? The trial?” “The trial is in an hour. You can’t go. You’re too weak.” “I have to go. If I don’t, they’ll take her away.” “Eduardo, if I disconnect you from this, you could die on the way.” I ripped the IV out of my arm. Blood stained the white sheets. “I’d rather die trying than live knowing I abandoned her. Get me my suit!”

I arrived at the Family Court on Francisco Gervás Street in a wheelchair, pale as a ghost, but with a burning passion. Carlos was pushing me at top speed. As I entered the courtroom, Mariana was smiling victoriously. Valeria was sitting in a corner with a social worker, weeping silently. When she saw me, her eyes lit up. “Dad!” The judge banged his gavel. “Order. Mr. Méndez, you look… terrible. Are you fit to proceed?” “Your Honor,” I said, making a superhuman effort to stand, leaning on the table for support. “I’m here to fight for my daughter.”

Mariana’s lawyer argued that I was a dying old man, with no biological connection, and that the girl should be with her own flesh and blood. Then Ricardo presented the evidence. Mariana’s empty bank statements. The testimonies of neighbors who saw her mistreat the girl. And finally, Tomás’s letter. The judge read the letter in silence. The courtroom held its breath. “Ms. Vázquez,” the judge said, looking at Mariana over the top of his glasses, “you received three hundred thousand euros for the care of this minor. Where is that money?” “I… invested it. It went wrong.” “That’s a lie,” I interjected. “She spent it on bingo and cars, while the daughter of my employee, the man who died building my building, slept on cardboard.”

The judge looked at Valeria. “Valeria, come here.” The little girl approached the bench, small but brave. “Who do you want to live with?” “With Eduardo,” she said without hesitation. “He’s my dad at heart. He bought me a bike. He feeds me. And when he’s scared because of his illness, I hold his hand. We take care of each other.” The judge, an older man with a reputation for being stern, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Custody is hereby revoked from Ms. Vázquez, and her immediate arrest is ordered for fraud and child neglect. Permanent custody of Valeria Jiménez is granted to Mr. Eduardo Méndez.”

The room erupted. Not in applause, but in a collective sigh of relief. Valeria ran to me and I fell to my knees to hug her. “We won, Dad. We won.” “Yes, my love. We won.”

But the story doesn’t end there. Six months later, I went back to Rodrigo’s office. I had undergone a new experimental treatment, one I decided to try only because I wanted to see Valeria graduate, get married, live. Rodrigo looked at the scans, incredulous. “What’s wrong, Rodrigo? How much longer do I have? Weeks?” He turned around, a smile spreading across his face. “Eduardo… the tumor has shrunk. It hasn’t disappeared completely, but it’s reduced by 80%. You’re in partial remission.” I couldn’t believe it. “How?” “Immunotherapy has helped, of course. But I’ve seen many cases. The will to live, Eduardo… love… it changes the body’s chemistry. That girl has literally saved your life.”

I ran out of the clinic. Well, I walked briskly, I’m not getting any younger. Valeria was waiting for me in the car, doing her math homework. “What did the doctor say?” she asked without looking up from her book. “He said we have a problem.” She looked at me, startled. “What problem?” “That you’re going to have to put up with me for much longer than a week. You’re going to have to put up with me for the rest of your life.”

Valeria dropped her pencil and threw her arms around my neck, laughing and crying at the same time. That week, which was supposed to be our last, became the first chapter of our lives. Today, Valeria studies Medicine at the Complutense University. She says she wants to cure people like me. And me… I’m still here, old and grumpy, but the happiest man in Madrid. Because I learned that blood makes you related, but only love makes you family. And that sometimes, when you think you’re saving someone, it’s actually that someone who’s saving you.

The euphoria of the court victory was sweet, but reality, as always, was waiting for us just around the corner. We had the papers, we had custody, but we still had the silent enemy breathing down my neck: cancer.

The morning after the trial, the routine at the house on Velázquez Street changed forever. It was no longer the home of a bitter, dying bachelor; now it was a home. I woke up to a sound that, in time, would become my favorite melody: Valeria singing in the shower. She sang off-key, making up the lyrics to the latest hit songs, but to my ears it was better than any Beethoven symphony.

I went down to the kitchen. Rosa was preparing breakfast with renewed energy. “Good morning, Don Eduardo. The little girl asked for pancakes. She says today is a special day.” “Every day is special now, Rosa.”

Valeria came running down the stairs in her new school uniform. We’d chosen a small private school in El Viso, where they knew our story and promised discretion and support. The gray pinafore dress was a little big on her, and her white socks were pulled up to her knees with almost military precision. “Dad!” she shouted, giving me a kiss on my cheek that smelled of strawberry shampoo. “Do I look pretty?” “You look beautiful, my love. You look like a minister.” “I don’t want to be a minister! I want to be a doctor, like Rodrigo. To heal you.”

That phrase became her mantra. After so many visits to the hospital, Valeria had decided her future with the unwavering determination of a seven-year-old. Dr. Rodrigo, delighted, had given her a toy stethoscope, and she would “consult” everyone in the house: Carmen, Rosa, even the Persian cat we had adopted because she said the house needed “more life.”

But life wasn’t all games. My experimental treatment began. Combination immunotherapy. Rodrigo was clear: “It’s going to be tough, Eduardo. Your body is going to fight a civil war.” And boy, was it ever.

There were weeks when I couldn’t get out of bed. Fatigue was a lead weight on my bones. Nausea prevented me from eating. In my previous life, I would have suffered this alone, locked in my room, barking orders so no one would see me weak. But now I had Valeria.

I remember one particularly bad afternoon. I had just come home from chemo and was lying on the living room sofa, shivering despite the heating. I felt a cool little hand on my forehead. “Does it hurt a lot, Daddy?” I opened my eyes. Valeria was there, her eyes full of worry, holding a glass of water with a straw. “A little, sweetheart. But it’ll pass.” “I brought you Mr. Ears,” she said, placing her favorite stuffed animal, a tattered rabbit, on my chest. “He takes care of me when I’m scared. Now he’ll take care of you.”

She sat on the rug next to the sofa and began reading her science homework to me. Her monotonous, sweet voice, explaining the water cycle or the parts of a plant, became my anchor to reality. As she read, I kept telling myself: I have to hold on. I can’t leave her alone. Not now. This girl, who had lived on the streets, who had known hunger and cold, was now taking care of me with a maturity that was frightening. We had reversed roles: I was the sick child, and she was the fierce guardian.

“Daddy, you have to eat,” she’d say, hands on her hips, imitating Carmen. “If you don’t eat, your little blood soldiers can’t fight the bad bugs.” And I would eat. I ate for her. Spoonful by spoonful, swallowing my nausea, because every bite was an act of love for that little girl.

Three months passed. Then six. The treatment began to work. The tumor markers were decreasing. My energy returned, little by little, like the tide that rises slowly but relentlessly. I started going to pick her up from school every day. Seeing her come out of that door, searching for me among the crowd of parents and grandparents, and seeing her face light up when she found me, was the best moment of my day. “Dad!” she’d run towards me, throwing her backpack. “I got a ten in math today! Carmen helped me with the subtraction.”

In the afternoons, while she did her homework, I started to write. I had always been a man of numbers, of plans and budgets. But I felt the need to record what had happened between us. I began to write a book. Not to publish it, but for her. So that, when I was gone (whether in ten or twenty years), she would never forget how we met. I titled it “Seven Days with Her .” I wrote about the first time I saw her in the plaza, about our first dinner, about the fear, about the letter from her father, Tomás. I wrote about how love isn’t something you search for, but something that finds you and overwhelms you when you least expect it.

One day, my secretary put a call through. “Mr. Méndez, it’s a journalist from El País. They’ve heard about the trial. They want an interview. They say it’s a human interest story.” “Tell them no,” I replied without looking up from my screen. “My life isn’t a circus. And my daughter’s even less so.” “They’re offering a cover story in the Sunday magazine.” “I don’t care if they offer the cover of Time. Valeria will have a normal life. She won’t be ‘the charity child’ or ‘the millionaire’s orphan.’ She’ll be Valeria Méndez, a future doctor and the best daughter in the world. Period.”

I protected our privacy like a lion. I turned down television, gossip magazines, and film producers. Our story was ours.

And so, between homework, doctor’s appointments, Friday night pizzas, and bedtime stories, the day arrived. April. Exactly one year since we met in that grimy square. I woke up with a strange feeling. It wasn’t pain. It was gratitude. A gratitude so immense it almost hurt. I went downstairs for breakfast. Routine was sacred. Valeria was sitting at the kitchen island, stirring her cereal with a spoon, a mischievous smile on her face. “Dad, do you know what day it is today?” “Hmm…” I pretended to think as I poured myself some coffee. “Thursday? Martian Independence Day?” She laughed. “No, silly! It’s our anniversary.” “Anniversary?” “Yes. A year ago you asked me if I wanted to be your daughter for a week.” I leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “And you said yes. The best deal I’ve ever closed, and I’ve closed many million-dollar deals.” “You said the week would last a lifetime,” she reminded him, becoming serious for a moment. “And I stand by that. We’re in week 52, and we have thousands more to go.”

I packed her lunch for school: a turkey sandwich (cut into triangles; she hated squares), a green apple, and a sticky note with a bad joke or an encouraging phrase. “To the future Nobel Prize winner in Medicine. Love you, Dad.”

“Are you all ready for the science exam?” I asked, adjusting my tie in front of the hall mirror. “Yes. I know the planets by heart. Mercury, Venus, Earth…” she recited them all as she put on her coat. I patted my pockets. Keys, wallet, phone. Valeria crept up quietly. “Wait, you’re missing something.” She pulled a folded piece of paper from her backpack. It was a pink sheet of paper, the kind they used for crafts at school. “What’s this?” I asked, trying to open it. She stopped me with her little hands. “No! It’s a surprise. Don’t read it until I’m gone. Promise.” “Promise,” I said, putting the pink paper in the inside pocket of my blazer, close to my heart. “Okay. Now give me a kiss.”

I dropped her off at the school gate. I watched her go in, greeting her friends, confident, happy. Gone was the frightened little girl who had been afraid of being abandoned. Now she walked with a confident stride. That day I had a checkup with Rodrigo. “Eduardo, this is boring,” Rodrigo joked, looking at the results. “You’re stable. Incredibly stable.” “I have a good reason not to die, Rodrigo. I have to pay my university tuition in ten years.”

I went to the office for a while. I signed papers, had meetings, but my mind was on the pink slip of paper burning hot in my pocket. At three o’clock, I was in the car waiting for her to come out. “Dad!” she burst in like a whirlwind. “The exam was a piece of cake! Uranus is the one with the rings on the side; I remembered from what you told me about him taking a nap.” “That’s my girl!” “What should we do to celebrate our anniversary?” “The usual?” “Pizza and a movie!” we shouted in unison.

We went to the supermarket and bought fresh dough, mozzarella, tomatoes, and ham. It was our Friday tradition, moved to Thursday for the special occasion. We made the pizza together, getting flour all over the kitchen. Valeria put some flour on my nose, and I tickled her until she almost peed herself laughing. After dinner, we watched The Lion King for the umpteenth time. Valeria cried when Mufasa died, as always, and snuggled up to my chest. “Thank goodness you didn’t die, Daddy,” she whispered, half asleep. “I’m tougher than Mufasa, sweetheart.”

I carried her to bed. I tucked her in up to her chin. “Goodnight, princess.” “Goodnight, Daddy. I love you to infinity and beyond.” “And I love you too.”

I closed her bedroom door, leaving it a crack open, just the way she liked it. I went to my study, loosened my tie, and poured myself a glass of wine. The house was quiet, but it was a peaceful silence, not the empty silence of a year ago. Then I remembered the note. I took the pink paper out of my pocket. It was a little crumpled. I unfolded it carefully. Valeria’s handwriting had improved a lot, although she still sometimes wrote her ‘s’s backward.

Read:

“Dad Eduardo:

A year ago I was very scared and very hungry. You asked me if I wanted to be your daughter for a week. I said yes because I thought you would give me food and then throw me away. But you didn’t throw me away. You gave me a bike, you gave me a bed, and you gave me Carmen and Rosa.

But the most important thing is that you gave me a dad. My dad, Tomás, wrote to me to find someone who would look at me with love. And you look at me like that. When you look at me, I don’t see the dirty girl from the street, I see Valeria the doctor.

You always say that you saved me from Aunt Mariana and the streets. But I think it’s the other way around. You were very sad and wanted to go to heaven with your family. But you stayed with me. I gave you a reason to fight against the monsters in your blood. You gave me a home. I gave you a purpose.

Thank you for being my dad. Please never die. Or at least wait until I’m a doctor so I can cure you completely.

I love you, Valeria (Your daughter forever)”

I read the letter once. Twice. The third time, tears fell onto the pink paper, smudging the blue pen ink. “I gave you a home, you gave me a reason.” What a profound truth in the mind of an eight-year-old girl.

I got up and went to the window. It was raining softly over Madrid, just like that night a year ago. But now the rain didn’t seem sad; it seemed to be cleansing the city. I looked at my reflection in the glass. I no longer saw the washed-up, gray, dying man. I saw a man with gray hair, with wrinkles, but with life in his eyes. He had built skyscrapers that touched the clouds, he had amassed a fortune, but nothing, absolutely none of that, compared to the success of having been chosen as a father by that little girl.

That trial week had long since expired. The temporary contract had become permanent. I turned off the office light and went upstairs to my bedroom. I stopped at Valeria’s door and listened to her breathing, calm, confident. I knew cancer was treacherous. I knew the future was uncertain. But I also knew one thing with absolute certainty: as long as I had a breath left, that breath would be for her.

I went to sleep with a smile, eagerly awaiting morning to hear her sing off-key in the shower again. Because in the end, life isn’t measured in weeks, diagnoses, or millions of euros. Life is measured in the moments when someone looks at you with love and says, “Stay a little longer.”

And I was planning to stay.