A millionaire was having Christmas dinner alone. What the waitress did at 11:59 pm changed everything. Five years. Sebastián Duarte placed the red box wrapped in gold paper on the empty chair in front of him, feeling the familiar weight of the ritual in his chest. Five Christmases sitting at this same table. Five years pretending someone would arrive at any moment. 

Good evening, sir. May I offer you something to drink while you wait? He looked up. The waitress was young, perhaps 30, with her hair pulled back and eyes that seemed too tired for her age. She wore the restaurant’s black uniform with a dignity he immediately recognized. 

The dignity of someone who works without apology. Red wine, the reserve they have from the Valle de Guadalupe. She nodded without the curious glances other waiters gave her when they saw the gift box. No questions, no pity. Sebastián looked toward the window of the crystal palace, observing the Paseo de la Reforma illuminated with Christmas lights. 

Families strolled hand in hand. Couples paused to take pictures in front of the decorated trees. He had built an empire. Twelve buildings in Mexico City. Properties in Querétaro, Monterrey, Guadalajara. Thirty-eight years old and enough money to buy anything he wanted, except someone who would stay. His wine, sir. 

The waitress placed the glass in front of him with steady hands. They weren’t trembling like those of some nervous waiters when faced with expensive tables. He’d already decided what to order. The tasting menu for two, please. She jotted it down without blinking, without acknowledging the obvious fact that he was alone. Any allergies or preferences? No. Sebastián waited for her to leave, but she lingered for a moment, her gaze briefly shifting to the red box before returning to her notepad. 

Today’s dessert is chocolate raspberry tart. Would you like to include it? Yes. As she walked away, Sebastian touched the edge of the box. The paper crinkled under his fingers. Inside was the diamond bracelet he had bought for Patricia five years ago. He had brought it to her that December 24th, excited because she had requested to dine there. 

“We need to talk about something important,” Patricia had said on the phone that afternoon. He had thought they were finally going to talk about marriage. His company had just closed the biggest deal of his career: a luxury development in Polanco, worth 20 million dollars. 

Patricia had arrived radiant in a red dress he’d never seen before. She sat down exactly where the box now rested. “Sebastián, this isn’t working.” He smiled, confused. “What are you talking about? I just closed the Polanco Podemos project. I’m dating Javier.” The mention of his business partner’s name had dropped like shattering glass. “What? It’s been six months.” 

I’m sorry, but you love your company more than anyone. Javier knows how to make me feel important. She stood up, leaving him with the gift box in his hands and the restaurant full of people watching them. The waitress returned with a basket of artisan bread. She placed it in the center of the table next to a small dish of olive oil with herbs. 

Your first course will arrive in 10 minutes. Thank you. She turned to leave, but stopped. Excuse me, the gift is very fragile. I can move it to another chair if it’s in the way. Sebastian felt something strange in his throat. No one had mentioned the box to him before. The restaurant staff pretended not to see it, as if it were part of the decor. You can stay there as you like. 

The waitress walked over to another table where a family was celebrating loudly. The grandfather was lifting a little girl up and twirling her around as everyone laughed. Sebastian drank the wine. It was excellent as always, expensive, perfect, and completely devoid of meaning. He watched the waitress as she attended to the family table. She was smiling with genuine warmth. 

She recommended dishes with enthusiasm. She crouched down to talk to the children at their eye level. It wasn’t the professional, forced smile he was used to. This one was genuine. Just as her last genuine smile had appeared, her phone vibrated—a message from her mother. Merry Christmas, it said. I wish you were here with us. He didn’t reply. Every year it was the same conversation. 

She was in Nesahualcoyotl with her uncles. He was here in the most expensive restaurant in the city, proving to himself that he was okay. The waitress returned with the first course. Scallops with cauliflower purée and caviar. Would you like fresh pepper? Yes, thank you. She ground the pepper over the plate with precise movements. 

Sebastian noticed her hands were slightly red, as if she’d worked hard that day. “How long have you worked here?” he asked before he could stop himself. She looked up, surprised. “Three years, although I’m covering a colleague’s shift today. Christmas must be hard to work at.” Something crossed her face—sadness, perhaps, or recognition. Sometimes it’s easier to be busy than to overthink. 

The words hit him like a punch. She had summed it up perfectly. Five years of coming here weren’t about remembering Patricia; they were about staying so caught up in the pain that he didn’t have to face the real loneliness. “And you?” she asked gently. “Waiting for someone.” Sebastian looked at the red box. For the first time in five years, he considered telling the truth. “No.” 

The waitress nodded as if she understood exactly what he hadn’t said. The restaurant fills up early on Christmas, but it’s always empty by midnight. Families prefer to be at home. And you don’t have any family waiting for you? She smiled, but there was pain behind that smile. My daughter is with my mother tonight. I need the Christmas tips. 

A daughter was young to have children, but the way she said it, with that fierce pride mixed with exhaustion, told him everything she needed to know. Single mother, working double shifts, surviving as he had survived when his father left. How old is she? 7 years old. The waitress glanced toward the boisterous family, where the children were now drawing on the paper placemats 

Emma wanted art supplies for Christmas. She loves colors. Sebastian felt something stir in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Genuine interest. She must be talented. She is. She sees the world differently than the rest of us. The waitress realized she’d talked too much. She straightened up, returning to her professional posture. Excuse me, I shouldn’t. Don’t apologize. 

She looked at him, confused by his tone. It wasn’t the tone of a millionaire customer; it was simply human. Thank you for the conversation. The waitress nodded slowly, as if she were seeing something she hadn’t expected to see. Then she walked away, leaving him with the scallops and the weight of the red box, which suddenly felt different, less like a monument, more like a chain 

Lucía Fernández felt the pain in her feet like needles. Seven hours on her feet during the lunch shift, a 40-minute bus ride across town, and now five more hours ahead. But Emma would have her new watercolors tomorrow morning. That was all that mattered. “Lucía, you’re at table 12,” the manager said, pointing toward the window. “The one who comes alone every year, the millionaire. That’s the one.” 

The girls say he’s weird. He orders for two and eats alone. Lucía took out her notebook. She’d seen stranger things. Rich people had their quirks. As long as they paid well and weren’t rude, she’d do her job. She walked over to the table and saw the man for the first time 

A navy blue suit, perfectly pressed, a watch that probably cost more than three months’ rent, but it was his eyes that stopped her, empty like her own in the mirror every morning before putting on her “Everything’s Fine” mask. “Good evening, sir. May I offer you something to drink while you wait?” He ordered wine without really looking at her. 

Lucía was used to it. Wealthy people rarely saw the waiters, but then she noticed the red box on the empty chair. The gold paper shimmered in the restaurant lights, wrapped perfectly, with no card in sight. She didn’t ask. She had learned long ago that personal questions were unwelcome. When she returned with the wine, he surprised her by ordering the tasting menu for two. 

His voice was firm, controlled, as if he had said those words many times. Lucía made a note without comment on the empty chair. As she walked toward the kitchen, her phone vibrated. A message from her mother. Emma had already fallen asleep dreaming about her paintings. I love you, daughter. Lucía blinked rapidly. She couldn’t cry. 

Not here, not when I needed these tips. Lucía, order ready for table eight. She wiped her eyes and took the tray. The family at table eight was loud and joyful, three generations celebrating together. Grandpa was doing magic tricks for the children while Grandma poured punch from a thermos they had brought from home 

“Miss!” called the youngest girl, “Do you have children?” “Yes, my love, a 7-year-old girl. Why aren’t you with her for Christmas?” The girl’s mother blushed. “Camila, don’t be rude, it’s no problem,” said Lucia, kneeling beside the girl. “I work to buy her a very special present. Sometimes moms and dads do that. We work to give them nice things. What are you going to buy her? Watercolors and brushes.” 

“She loves to paint.” The girl smiled. “Me too. Do you want to see my drawing?” Lucia spent 5 minutes admiring Camila’s drawing on the paper tablecloth: a Christmas tree with a family around it, all holding hands. Emma used to draw like that before Jorge left 

Now her drawings were of two figures, herself and Emma. No one else. “It’s beautiful,” Lucía said sincerely. “You have a lot of talent.” When she stood up, she noticed the man at table 12 watching her, not with the empty stare as before, but with something different. Curiosity. Lucía felt warmth in her cheeks and went back to the kitchen. “Are you okay?” asked Marta, her coworker. “Just tired. 

You should be at home with your daughter, not covering my shift. I need the money, Marta, and you need to be with your family.” Marta hugged her briefly. “You’re too good, Lucía. Someday someone will take care of you, too.” Lucía smiled without replying. She had stopped believing that three years ago 

Jorge had taught her that love was conditional, that when life got tough, people left. Emma was 4 years old when she needed surgery. The doctors explained that her left leg needed intervention to prevent the spasticity from worsening. Intensive physical therapy. Possible more operations in the future. Jorge had listened to everything with his jaw clenched. 

That night, as Emma slept in the hospital, he said the words Lucia would never forget. I didn’t sign up for this. For what? To be a father? For a daughter who will never be normal, for a life of hospitals and debt, you decided to have her when the doctors said something was wrong. She had cerebral palsy, Jorge, not a death sentence. I wanted a perfect family 

This isn’t what I wanted. She left two days later. The divorce papers arrived by courier. Lucía had been studying architecture at UNAM when she became pregnant. Fourth semester. She dreamed of designing spaces for low-income communities, decent housing for people like her family in Oaxaca. Jorge had promised her she could finish her degree, that he would support her. 

But when Emma was born with complications, everything changed. The doctor’s appointments were constant. Someone had to take care of her. Jorge worked, so Lucía dropped out of university. It’s temporary, she told herself. I’ll come back when Emma is stable. She never did. Lucía, the customer at table 12 is asking for you. Lucía snapped out of her thoughts and picked up her notebook 

When he arrived at the table, the man had barely touched his food. “Everything’s fine with the dish, sir. It’s perfect. I just wanted to ask about your daughter.” Lucia blinked in surprise. “Excuse me.” “You said she likes to paint. What kind of things does she draw?” It was an odd question coming from a customer, but something about his tone wasn’t intrusive; it was genuinely curious. 

“Everything—people, animals, buildings. She sees colors the rest of us don’t. She must be very intelligent.” “She is.” Lucia hesitated. Then he added, “She has cerebral palsy. It affects her left leg, but her mind is brilliant.” She didn’t know why he was telling her this. He usually kept Emma’s condition private 

People were asking too many questions, or worse, they were pathetic, but he just nodded. I know an architect who designs with paralysis in both hands. His buildings are the most innovative in Mexico. Sometimes limitations make us more creative. Lucía felt something loosen in her chest. Exactly. That’s exactly what I always tell Emma. Did you study architecture? The question caught her off guard 

How? The way she talks about buildings. As if she sees them differently. Lucía laughed softly. She was studying at UNAM. I dropped out when Emma was born. When was that? Seven years ago, fourth semester, almost halfway through. And you never went back? The question was simple, but it hurt. Life got in the way. 

Sebastian, as her reservation said, looked at her as if he understood exactly what she wasn’t saying. Sometimes life takes things away to give us better ones. Do you believe that? He looked at the red box on the empty chair. I’m trying to believe it. Lucia felt something passing between them, a recognition. Two broken people pretending to be whole. 

“I should get back to my work,” she said softly. “Of course, thank you for the conversation.” As she walked away, Lucia felt his eyes following her, not the way some men looked at her, not with desire or evaluation, but with something more dangerous, understanding, and Lucia couldn’t afford to let anyone really see her. 

Not when she had worked so hard to build her walls. At 9 p.m., the crystal palace vibrated with celebrations. Every table was an explosion of laughter, toasts, and Christmas carols, except for table 12. Lucia watched Sebastian from the service station. He had finished his first course without touching his second utensil 

The red box sat in place like a ghost guest. Table 12, second course, the chef announced. Lucía ordered both appetizers: lamb with red wine reduction and mushroom risotto. Both dishes cost more than her weekly rent. Your next course, sir. Sebastián looked up from his phone. She noticed there were no messages on the screen. 

He was only looking at her to have something to do. It looks delicious. The lamb is the chef’s specialty. He says it’s his best creation. Have you tried it? The question surprised her. Customers didn’t ask if the staff had tasted the food. No, we eat in the kitchen after our shift, usually leftovers. 

Sebastián frowned. He works late, until closing time, 1 a.m. on Christmas. That’s long. It’s a waiter’s life. Lucía turned to leave, but he spoke again. My mother was a waitress. When my father left us, she worked two shifts. She’d get home at 2 a.m. and leave again at 6 

The words stopped her in her tracks. Lucía turned slowly. How old were you? 16. My sister was 12. That must have been hard. She never complained, not once. There was something in her voice. Admiration mixed with guilt. Mothers do whatever it takes, Lucía said gently. 

Even work at Christmas, especially at Christmas. Gifts don’t buy themselves. Sebastián looked at her with an intensity that made her feel naked, as if he could see every unpaid bill, every sleepless night, every time she smiled when she wanted to cry. Your daughter is lucky to have you. Lucía felt a lump in her throat. I’m the lucky one. 

She walked away before he could see the tears in her eyes. In the kitchen, Marta grabbed her arm. “What did he say to you? You turned bright red.” “Nothing, we were just talking.” “Lucía, that man has money and he’s eyeing you up, so don’t start, Marta. I’m just saying you could—what? Look for a ransom.” 

“I’ve already tried depending on a man. I’m not making that mistake again.” Marta sighed. “Not all men are Jorge.” “No, some are worse.” Lucía took the plates to table eight. The large family had grown. Now there were 15 people squeezed around two tables pushed together. Grandpa was telling stories while the children stared at him in awe 

And then the donkey ate the whole cake. Grandpa finished, provoking laughter. Grandma gently punched his shoulder. Oh, Miguel, always exaggerating. It’s Christmas, woman. At Christmas, everything is magical. The grandchildren chimed in. Another story, Grandpa. Lucia felt a pang of pain. Emma would never know her paternal grandfather. 

Jorge had made sure of that, cutting off all contact. And her own father had died when she was 12 in a construction accident. Emma wouldn’t have grandparents to tell her stories. As he served dessert to the family, Grandpa took small gifts out of a bag. Nothing expensive—plastic toys, candy, notebooks with stickers—but the children received them as if they were treasures. Thank you, Grandpa. You’re welcome, my loves 

This is what’s important, being together. Money comes and goes, but family is forever. Lucia glanced toward table 12. Sebastian had stopped pretending to eat. He was looking at the family with an expression she recognized all too well. Longingly, when she returned to her table, his jaw was clenched. His hands were in fists on the white tablecloth. 

Sir, are you all right? Perfectly fine. But his voice sounded strangled. Lucia placed the next dish, salmon with passion fruit sauce, and ventured, “The holidays are difficult when the family is complicated.” Sebastian looked up sharply. His eyes sought hers, surprised. “What? Because I can pretend everything’s all right too.” The silence between them felt charged with electricity 

Lucía knew she had crossed a line. The waiters didn’t make personal remarks about customers, but something in his pain had touched her. She recognized that loneliness because she lived with it every day. “Is your family at home waiting for you?” he finally asked. “My mother is taking care of Emma tonight.” 

She lives nearby in a small apartment. She works cleaning houses in Polanco. “And Emma’s father?” The question came softly, almost afraid of offending. He left three years ago. He decided that a daughter with a disability was too complicated for his perfect life. Sebastián inhaled sharply. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be.” “He taught me something valuable.” 

That I’ll never again depend on someone who can leave when things get tough. “And does that work? Not depending on anyone.” Lucía laughed humorlessly. “I ask myself that every night when I get home exhausted and Emma is already asleep. When I work so much that I miss her new drawings, her stories of the day.” 

But at least I know I’m not going to wake up one day and find that everything I built depended on someone who decided to leave. Sebastian looked at her as if she had just described his own life. I do the same thing, he admitted. After my fiancée left me, I decided it was safer to be alone, that I would never again give anyone the power to destroy me. And it works. He looked at the red box. I ask myself that every Christmas when I come here to pretend I’m okay. 

The brutal honesty of his words hit Lucia in the chest. This man, in his expensive suit and with his table at the most exclusive restaurant in town, was just as broken as she was. “You should eat before it gets cold,” she said gently. “How long has it been since you had something hot?” The question disarmed her. 

“Pardon?” He said he eats leftovers from the kitchen. “How long has it been since you had a hot, freshly cooked meal?” Lucia laughed nervously. “I don’t know, months maybe. I cook for Emma, ​​but when I get home from work I just want to sleep.” 

Sebastian studied her for a long moment, then pushed the plate of risotto toward her. Here, I’m not going to finish it, sir. I can’t, please. My mother worked for years serving food she could never afford. If she were here, she would insist. Lucia looked at the plate. The aroma made her salivate, but accepting felt like crossing a line she couldn’t uncross. It’s very kind, but it’s not kindness, it’s acknowledgment. 

You work as hard as my mother did. You deserve to eat well, something in his tone. The total absence of pity, only respect, made Lucia take the plate. Thank you. She walked away quickly, her cheeks burning. In the kitchen, she ate the risotto standing by the washing station 

It was delicious, creamy, rich, with a mushroom flavor she’d never tasted before, and for some reason, tears were streaming down her face. Lucia. Marta appeared, her eyes worried. “What happened?” “Nothing. It’s just… It’s been a long day.” Marta didn’t believe her, but she didn’t press her either. At 10 p.m., the restaurant began to empty. Families were leaving for their evening inns. 

Couples were retiring to private celebrations. Table eight, the boisterous family, rose with hugs and goodbyes. The children thanked Lucia for her patience, and the grandfather left her a generous tip for his daughter’s crayons, she said with a wink. When they left, the restaurant felt suddenly empty. Only five tables remained. 

The Christmas music was playing too loudly in the now silent space. Lucia glanced toward table 12. Sebastian was still alone with the red box as his only company, but now she saw him differently, not as a rich customer with strange eccentricities, but as someone who understood exactly what it meant to smile while bleeding you dry inside 

And that, Lucía knew with absolute certainty, was the most dangerous thing of all. 11 p.m. arrived like a wave, sweeping away half the restaurant. Lucía watched the tables empty one after another, families hurrying to their inns, young couples leaving for parties with friends. 

The Christmas bustle faded, leaving only the echo of past laughter. By 11:15, three tables remained. Table 12 was one of them. Sebastián had stopped pretending to eat. His phone rested on the table, the screen lighting up every few minutes. Lucía watched him check it with mechanical movements. Lift, look, sigh, drop. He wasn’t expecting messages; he just couldn’t stop searching 

She knew that gesture all too well. “Lucía, we need to start closing up the kitchen,” the chef said, peeking through the swinging doors. “How many tables are left?” “Three, but they’re finishing up.” “Good, I want everyone out by 12.” Lucía nodded, feeling the weight of exhaustion in every muscle. 

13 hours on her feet. Her back screamed, her feet burned inside her worn shoes, but she couldn’t leave. Not yet. Something about the way Sebastián looked at that phone kept her tethered, as if it might break at any moment, and she needed to be there to pick up the pieces. 

“She’s being ridiculous,” she told herself. “He’s just a customer.” But her heart didn’t believe her. At 11:20, the other two tables got up almost simultaneously. Exchanges of tips, Merry Christmas wishes, doors closing with the sound of chimes. The restaurant was empty, except for table 12. Lucía got the coffee maker from the gas station 

He hadn’t ordered coffee, but something told him he needed it. He walked to his table with silent steps on the marble floor. The heels of his shoes echoed in the empty space, making the restaurant feel like a cathedral. “Your coffee, sir.” Sebastian looked up, confused. “I didn’t order. I thought I might need it.” Their eyes met. Something passed between them. 

A recognition that went beyond words. She had seen his pain. He had seen hers. They could no longer pretend to be strangers. Sebastián accepted the cup with slightly trembling hands. Thank you. Lucía should have left. She had glasses to clean, tables to set for breakfast the next day, but her feet refused to move. Do you have family waiting for you? he asked suddenly. 

The question floated between them like a confession. My daughter is with my mother, sleeping, probably dreaming of Christmas morning. And what do you dream about? Lucía laughed softly, surprised by the question. I dream that tiredness won’t hurt so much. That I’ll get home and have the energy to read her a story before she goes to sleep 

How long has it been since he’s succeeded? Weeks, maybe months. Sebastian sipped his coffee, his eyes never leaving her. Do you ever regret having her all to yourself? The question might have sounded cruel, but Lucia heard what he was really asking. Is all this suffering worth it? Never. Emma is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. 

Even when I’m exhausted, even when the bills don’t add up, even when—she stopped, surprised by her own words. Even when what, even when I’m still checking my phone, hoping Jorge will text me, telling me he made a mistake, that he wants to come back. The admission came out before she could stop her. Lucia froze, horrified that she’d said that out loud, but Sebastian just nodded slowly. I do the same 

Every Christmas I wait for a message from Patricia saying she made a mistake, that she misses me, and it never arrives. Silence stretched between them, heavy with all the messages that never came, all the apologies that were never said. Why do we keep waiting? Lucía asked softly. When we know it’s not worth it, because it’s easier to wait than to accept that we chose wrong, that we gave our hearts to people who didn’t know how to take care of them. Lucía felt tears stinging her eyes. 

I have to finish my work. Wait. Sebastián’s voice stopped her just as she had turned away. I come here every Christmas Eve. For 5 years, always the same table, the same ritual. Lucía turned slowly to look at him. Why? Because Patricia left me here at this table. 

He asked me to come over for a special dinner and told me that he had been with my business partner for six months, that I was too work-obsessed to be a good boyfriend. His voice cracked slightly on the last word. I’m sorry. Don’t be. He was right. I loved my company more than her. Building buildings was easier than building a relationship. And now, I have 12 properties and not a single person waiting for me at home 

Lucía walked back to the table without thinking. She slid into the chair opposite him, the chair where the red box rested. She had to move the gift aside and felt Sebastián tense up as she did. “What’s in the box?” she asked gently. “A bracelet. It was her Christmas present. I never gave it to her.” 

“Why do you keep bringing it?” Sebastián looked at the gift as if it were an enemy. “At first it was anger. He wanted to remind her of her betrayal. But now I don’t know. It’s as if without her, without this ritual, I would have to admit that I’m completely alone.” “He’s not alone. He doesn’t have his mother, his sister, employees, I suppose, friends, people who need me or tolerate me.” 

“It’s not the same as having someone choose me.” The words resonated in Lucía’s chest because they were exactly what she felt every night. Emma loved her because she was her mother. Her mother supported her because she was her daughter, but no one chose her. “I know exactly what you mean,” she whispered. “Yes, Jorge left when Emma was 4.” 

He needed surgery on his leg. The doctors said there would be more therapies, more interventions. He said he hadn’t signed up for a life like this, that he wanted a normal family. “There’s no such thing as a normal family.” That’s what I told him. But he was already gone in his head, in his heart. It was just a matter of his body following. 

Sebastian reached across the table, not to touch her, just to close the space between them. “I miss being chosen every day,” Lucia admitted. “You miss me more than you should.” Behind them, the manager appeared in the kitchen doorway. He glanced toward table 12, then checked his watch, frowned. “Lucia called out. We need to close in 5 minutes,” she answered without turning around. The manager hesitated, then nodded and disappeared 

Sebastián took a sip of his now-cold coffee. “I don’t want to ruin your Christmas by keeping you here.” “You’re not ruining it.” “No.” Lucía shook her head. “Sometimes being busy is easier than staying home remembering everything that’s missing. Then we’re the same, two people hiding in work to avoid facing how empty our lives are.” The brutal honesty of his words should have offended her. 

Lucia, on the other hand, felt relief. Someone had finally said it out loud. How did we get here? she asked. How did we end up so alone? Choosing safety over risk. It’s easier to be alone than to trust again. But it’s not happier. No, Sebastian admitted. It’s definitely not happier. 

In the kitchen, the last employees were packing up. Lucia heard goodbyes, Christmas wishes, doors closing. It was 11:28. In 32 minutes it would be Christmas. And for the first time in years, Lucia didn’t want to be alone when the clock struck midnight. She looked at Sebastian and knew with absolute certainty that he felt exactly the same way 

“I have to finish closing up,” she said finally. “But can you stay just a little longer?” Sebastian smiled. Not the polite smile from before, a real one. I have nowhere else to be. Lucia stood up, her legs trembling slightly. She had crossed every professional line tonight. She had shared too much, felt too much, but for the first time in three years, she didn’t feel completely alone, and that was worth any risk. 

Lucia cleared the last few tables with automatic movements. Her hands knew what to do while her mind remained at table 12, 11:30. The manager had locked the main entrance. It was just the two of them left, her and the man who had punished himself at Christmas for the past five years. When she finished folding the napkins, she put away the salt shakers and stacked the chairs 

There were no more excuses to stay away. She walked toward table 12. Sebastian watched her with eyes that seemed to see everything. It’s over. Almost. Just this. Lucia gestured to her table, the half-finished plates, the red box, the two pieces of silverware that were never used. I can help. It’s not necessary. She stopped. What was she doing? Why was she still looking for reasons to stay? Sebastian seemed to read her mind. 

Please sit down, Mr. Duarte. I shouldn’t, Sebastian. And we’ve already broken all the rules tonight. What’s one more? Lucia glanced toward the kitchen. The chef had left through the back door. The manager was in his office closing up shop. They were alone in the empty dining room, with only the Christmas lights twinkling in the windows. She sat down in the chair across from him 

The red box rested between them like an invisible wall. “Does he really come here every year?” she asked. “Every December 24th, seven o’clock, the same table. And no one has ever asked him why. The staff is discreet. They probably think I’m eccentric or pathetic. I think he’s trapped.” Sebastian looked up sharply. “Sorry. Trapped in a moment he can’t let go of.” 

As if coming back here kept him connected to something. To what? To the pain. Because pain at least is something. It’s proof that he felt something real. The words came out with more truth than Lucía intended. She was talking about herself as much as about him. Sebastián studied her for a long moment. How does he know? Because I do the same thing. 

Every Christmas I work the longest shift I can get. I tell everyone it’s for the money, and it is. But it’s also because if I’m busy I don’t have to go home and see the tree I decorated alone, the presents I bought alone, the dinner I’ll make alone. Emma doesn’t count. Emma is my daughter 

He loves me because I’m his mother, but it doesn’t fill the void of someone choosing me as a partner, as an adult, as a woman. Sebastian nodded slowly. Patricia told me that I never really chose her, that I chose my company first, always. Was that true? Yes. The honesty of his answer surprised Lucia. 

Why? Because buildings don’t abandon you. You invest time, money, energy, and you get predictable results. People are complicated. People are human. Exactly. They make mistakes, they disappoint you, they leave. Lucia thought of Jorge, of how he had promised to love her in sickness and in health until sickness came knocking. 

“Jorge told me something the night she left,” she said softly. “Something I’ve never been able to forget.” What? We were at the hospital. Emma had just come out of surgery. The doctors explained that she would need intensive physical therapy, maybe more operations in the future. Jorge listened to everything with a stony face 

Lucía felt the tears burning, but she carried on. That night, as Emma slept connected to the monitors, he said, “I didn’t sign up for this.” Sebastián inhaled sharply. I asked him what that meant, and he said, “I signed up for a normal family, a daughter who could play soccer, who didn’t need doctors every week. This isn’t what I wanted.” 

I told God that Emma was diagnosed as a baby, that he knew about her condition from the beginning. He said he thought she would get better, that the doctors were wrong, but when he saw that it was permanent, that our lives would always include hospitals and therapies, he simply decided we weren’t worth the effort 

Lucía wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She left two days later. Emma was still in the hospital recovering. He packed his things while I slept in the chair next to his bed. He left the divorce papers on the kitchen table with a note that read, “Both of you deserve someone who can give you what you need, as if he’s some hero for abandoning you.” “Exactly.” Sebastián closed his eyes. 

Patricia did something similar. She made me come here, saying she had something special to tell me. I thought we were finally going to talk about marriage. I had bought the bracelet that morning. She touched the red box with a finger. I arrived early, nervous like a teenager. My company had just closed the biggest deal of my career. 

20 million dollars. A whole development in Polanco. I thought it was the perfect time. What happened? She was late, an hour late. When she came in, she was radiant, beautiful. She sat exactly where you are now and said, “Sastián, I need to be honest with you.” Her voice turned raspy. 

She told me she had been seeing Javier, my partner, for six months, that he made her feel important, that I was so obsessed with work that I didn’t even notice when she needed attention. She said she was going to move in with him, that she hoped we could be civil. Did she really use that word? Civilized. Yeah, like she’d asked me to change restaurants, not destroy my life 

Lucía felt rage burning in her chest, and Javier quit the company two weeks later. He opened his own firm using contacts he developed working with me. Patricia married him six months later. How do you know? Because I still check her social media every Christmas. I see pictures of his perfect house, his perfect vacation, his perfect life, and I wonder, what does he have that I didn’t? Lucía laid her hand across the table without thinking. 

Her fingers brushed against Sebastián’s. He doesn’t have anything you don’t have. She simply chose to give up on you and stay with him. It’s not a reflection of your worth. How can you be sure? Because Jorge did the same thing. He dumped me and found another woman six months later. A woman with no children, no complications. 

The last time I saw them, they were engaged. She was pregnant with a perfectly healthy baby. The words came out more bitter than Lucía intended. She saw them at the supermarket. Emma was with me. He pretended not to see us. He walked past as if we were ghosts 

Emma asked, “Mommy, why doesn’t Daddy talk to us?” And I had to make up a lie because the truth was too cruel. What truth is that her father is a coward who only loves easily? That when love requires work, effort, sacrifice, he simply gives up. Sebastian squeezed her hand. Emma didn’t lose anything. A father who abandons his daughter was never really a father. I know, but it hurts anyway. 

Of course it hurts, because you loved him with all your heart, you gave him everything, and he decided it wasn’t enough. Lucia felt tears falling freely. Now, exactly. And the worst part is that he made me believe the problem was me, that if I had been a better wife, more patient, more understanding, maybe he would have stayed. That’s a lie. 

How do you know? Because I told myself the exact same thing for years. If I had worked less, if I had taken her out to more dinners, if I had paid more attention to her. But the truth is, Patricia never truly loved me. She loved my potential, my money, the status of being the girlfriend of the successful developer. When Javier offered the same thing without the hard work, she took it 

So, we both chose wrong, yes, but we keep berating ourselves as if it were our fault. The manager appeared in the kitchen doorway, his face tired. “Lucía, it’s 11:52. I need to close.” Lucía stood up automatically. “Yes, of course. It’s over.” Sebastián also stood up, reaching for his wallet. 

“How much is it?” “10,000 pesos.” Sebastián took out 2,000. “What change, sir?” “That’s too much. Thank you for listening to me, for seeing me.” Lucía took the money with trembling hands. 800 pesos in tips, more than she earned in a whole day. “Thank you.” Sebastián put on his coat and lifted the red box. 

For a moment it seemed heavier than before, as if it finally felt the weight of five years of carrying it. “Where are you going now?” Lucía asked. “Home, to toast alone with a bottle of whiskey, to wake up tomorrow with a hangover and pretend that tonight didn’t happen. And next year I’ll be back here at seven o’clock, the same table.” 

Lucia looked at the box in her hands, looked into his tired eyes, looked at the clock on the wall. 11:55, 5 minutes until Christmas. And suddenly Lucia knew exactly what she had to do. Lucia felt her feet move before her brain could stop them. She walked toward Sebastian, who was already heading for the door with the red box under his arm. 

His back was rigid, his shoulders tense, the weight of 5 years pulling him down. “Wait.” He stopped, turning slowly. “Yes.” Lucia looked at the clock on the wall. 11:58. 2 minutes until Christmas. Two minutes to change something, to break a cycle, to choose differently. She reached for the box. Give me that. Sebastian instinctively stepped back, clutching the box to his chest 

What? No, I, please. Something in her voice, urgency mixed with compassion, made Sebastián loosen his grip. Lucía took the box from his hands, feeling the weight of the paper, crumpled from years of carrying. Lucía, what are you doing? She didn’t answer. Instead, she placed the box directly into Sebastián’s hands. 

Not in his arms, not under his arm as he had been carrying her. In his hands, forcing him to hold her, to confront her. “This box has been waiting for the wrong person for 50 years,” she said softly, her eyes never leaving him. “Maybe it’s time to let it go.” Not for her, for you. Sebastián looked at the box as if he were seeing it for the first time. His hands trembled. 

His breathing became ragged. I can’t. This is all I have left of what? Of her pain, her humiliation, proof that I’m not crazy, that she existed, that what I felt was real. Lucía gently touched his hands, still holding the box. He doesn’t need a box to prove he loved. He carries it in every decision to come here alone, in every table he reserves for two, in every year he punishes himself for having been human and vulnerable 

But if I let her go, if he lets her go, he can finally breathe. The clock struck 11:59. One minute. Sebastian looked at the box, then at Lucia, then back at the box. Five years, he whispered. Five Christmases carrying it around, rewrapping it every year, keeping it perfect. For what? To remind myself that I’ll never again be foolish enough to love like that. And it worked. 

Sebastian looked at her, tears glistening in his eyes. No, it only made me lonelier. Lucia felt her own heart breaking for this man, this stranger who somehow understood every dark corner of her soul. So, let her go. Not for Patricia, for you, for the possibility of something different. Sebastian took a deep breath, once, twice, then walked toward the restaurant entrance 

Lucía followed him, not knowing what he would do, but unable to leave him alone. By the door was a donation box for toys and gifts for children in hospitals. The restaurant put it out every Christmas, decorated with red and gold ribbons. Sebastián stopped in front of it. The clock on the wall struck midnight. The bells of a nearby church began to chime. One, two, three. 

It was Christmas. And in the first minute of the loneliest day of the year, Sebastián Duarte placed the red box in the donation bin. He lowered it gently, as if it were something precious that had finally found its rightful home. Then he stood there watching it disappear among other wrapped gifts. Lucía saw his shoulders tremble 

She heard a sound, half sob, half laugh, escape from his throat. “I should feel devastated,” he said without turning around. “I should feel like I just lost something important.” “What do you feel?” Sebastián turned to look at her, and Lucía saw something on his face that hadn’t been there before. “Freedom. I feel light, like I’ve been carrying a rock on my chest and finally let it go.” 

“Lucía smiled, tears running down her cheeks. “Merry Christmas, Sebastián.” He laughed. A real laugh, deep, that sounded rusty from lack of use. Merry Christmas, Lucía. They stood there, two strangers who had become something more in the space of a few hours, the empty restaurant around them, the Christmas lights twinkling in the windows, the sound of bells still ringing in the distance 

Are you still hungry? Sebastian asked suddenly. Lucia blinked in confusion. What? She worked 12 hours, ate a plate of risotto I gave her. She must be starving. I suppose so. Do you know how to cook? Of course. You— Sebastian smiled guiltily. I can order food very well. Cook, not so much. What do you suggest? He glanced toward the kitchen. Do you think there’s anything there we could make? Lucia felt a bubble of laughter rise in her chest. 

You want to cook now? At Christmas. Why didn’t I just donate 50 years of self-flagellation? I could do something completely different, too. The manager appeared at that moment, ready to close. He saw Sebastian and Lucia standing by the donation box, both with tears in their eyes, but smiling. Is everything alright? he asked, confused. Perfect, Sebastian replied 

May we use the kitchen? Just for a moment, I promise to leave everything clean. The manager looked at Lucia, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Something about the scene. The lonely millionaire and the exhausted waitress, both transformed by something he didn’t fully understand, made him smile. The keys are in my office. 

Lock up tight when you’re done. He handed the keys to Lucia with a wink. Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas, Mr. Moreno. When the manager left, Lucia and Sebastian were alone in the completely empty restaurant. This is crazy, Lucia said. Completely. I could lose my job. I’ll get you a better one. I don’t need you to rescue me. I’m not rescuing you. 

I’m asking you to teach me how to make quesadillas because I’m starving and you’re the only person in this building who knows how to cook. Lucia laughed. A laugh that came from deep within her stomach, free and genuine. Okay, but if you burn down my kitchen, you’ll have to explain it to the chef. Deal 

They walked together toward the kitchen, crossing the empty dining room. Their footsteps echoed in the silence, but it no longer felt heavy; it felt full of possibility. In the industrial kitchen, Lucía turned on the lights. Stainless steel gleamed under the fluorescent lamps. Everything was immaculately clean, ready for the next day’s service. “Good,” she said, putting on an apron. 

Lesson one. Don’t touch anything without asking. Sebastian raised his hands in surrender. I’m completely yours to order. Lucia opened the refrigerator, searching for ingredients. She found tortillas, cheese, mushrooms, onion, and poblano pepper. Perfect. We’ll make gourmet quesadillas. There is such a thing. With my hands, everything is gourmet. Sebastian laughed, relaxing against the prep counter. She’s always so confident. 

It’s only when I cook that I know I can do perfectly. Emma, ​​are you okay? The question was casual, but Lucia heard the real curiosity behind it. Like a queen, we may not have much, but there’s always hot food on our table. What do you like to eat? Pasta. Any kind of pasta with butter and cheese is her favorite. 

Sebastian picked up a knife, watching as Lucia expertly chopped onion. I can help. You can chop the mushrooms, thin slices. He held the knife awkwardly, his cuts uneven and chunky. Lucia watched for a moment, then stepped closer. Not like that. Look 

She placed her hands over his, guiding the knife. Sebastián remained still, aware of every point where they touched. Even movements. Don’t press too hard. He’s paying attention. Absolutely. But his voice sounded distracted. Lucía realized how close they were, her back against his chest, her hands over his. 

She pulled away quickly, feeling flushed. Keep practicing. Sebastián continued chopping. Better now, but still clumsy. Lucía prepared the griddle, watching him out of the corner of her eye. I never really cooked. My mother cooked. Then, when I moved out on my own, I hired someone. Then I ate out at restaurants. It never seemed necessary to learn. 

Cooking is therapeutic. It turns simple ingredients into something that nourishes the people you love. I don’t have many people to love. Lucía turned to look at him. Maybe that’s the problem. You need more people in your life. Are you volunteering? The question came out playful, but there was something real underneath. Hope, fear 

Lucía placed the first tortilla on the griddle. I’m offering to teach her how to make quesadillas. We’ll figure out the rest. Sebastián smiled. It’s a start. They worked in comfortable silence, preparing the quesadillas. Sebastián burned the first tortilla, making them laugh. Lucía rescued it by flipping it just in time. She has to keep a close eye on it. 

The griddle is treacherous, like relationships. Exactly. One second of carelessness and everything burns. When the quesadillas were ready, they sat at the prep counter, eating directly from the serving plates. There was no ceremony, no pretension, just simple food and good company. “This is delicious,” Sebastián said with his mouth full. 

I told her she was a gourmet, where she learned to cook like that. My grandmother in Oaxaca spent summers with her. She taught me that food is love made visible. Her grandmother was wise. She was. They ate in silence for a moment, savoring not only the food, but the moment. The strangeness of being in a restaurant kitchen at 1 a.m., the intimacy of sharing something made with their own hands 

“Do you know what the strangest thing about tonight is?” Sebastian asked. “What? That it’s the first Christmas in five years that I haven’t felt completely miserable?” Lucia smiled. “Me too. Really, really. Usually I finish my shift, take the bus home, and cry the whole way, but tonight, I don’t know, something changed. I think we both changed something.” Lucia looked at him. 

This man who had been a stranger just six hours ago now felt like someone he’d known his whole life, and that was the scariest thing of all. Mexico City was silent at 1:30 a.m. on December 25. Sebastian drove his Mercedes through empty streets, navigating according to the directions Lucia gave him between yawns 

She had insisted on taking the bus, but he had flatly refused. “I’m not going to let her take public transportation at this hour,” he had said. “I do it all the time.” Not today. And the tone of his voice, protective without being condescending, had made Lucía give in. 

Now she leaned against the window, struggling to keep her eyes open. Thirteen hours of work weighed on her like a blanket. “Are you okay?” Sebastián asked. “Just tired. You can sleep. I’ll wake up when we get there.” Lucía tried to protest, but her eyes were already closing. The warmth of the car, the soft hum of the engine, the strange security of being with someone who cared for her 

Everything combined to pull her into sleep. Sebastian glanced at her at every stoplight. Her face at rest looked younger. The worry lines around her eyes softened. Her breathing was deep and even. She was beautiful, not in Patricia’s polished way, with her perfect makeup and designer clothes, beautiful in a real, raw way, the kind of beauty that came from the strength to survive, to love fiercely despite the pain 

“This woman is dangerous,” Sebastián thought, “because she makes me want to try again.” The GPS guided him to a working-class neighborhood. The buildings were older here, the paint peeling. Clothes hung from balconies. A group of young people were celebrating on a corner with music and beer. Sebastián parked in front of the building Lucía had indicated. Five stories with no elevator, small windows. 

His apartment in Polanco had a view of the entire city, three bedrooms he never used, a bathroom with a jacuzzi where he never went in. This was real life, the life his mother had lived when he was a child. He gently touched Lucía’s shoulder. We’re here. She woke up confused, disoriented. What? Where’s your house? She fell asleep. Lucía rubbed her eyes, mortified. I’m sorry. How embarrassing. 

Don’t apologize. I needed the rest. She looked out the window at his building. Then she looked at the Mercedes. The gap between their worlds had never been so obvious. Thank you for bringing me. Thank you for tonight, for everything. They looked at each other in the dimness of the car. The streetlights cast shadows on their faces. Can I see you again? Sebastián asked, his voice almost timid 

Not at the restaurant, just coffee, maybe. Or a walk. Lucía felt fear and desire warring in her chest. Sebastián, I have a daughter. I work two jobs. My life is complicated. My life is empty. Maybe complicated is exactly what I need. He doesn’t really know me. Then, let’s get to know each other. 

No pretense, no expectations. Let’s just see what happens. Lucía wanted to say no. She wanted to protect herself, protect Emma. Not repeat the mistakes of the past, but there was something in his eyes, vulnerability mixed with hope, that made her nod. Coffee. But not soon. I need time to think. How long? I don’t know, a few days. Sebastián took the dinner receipt out of his pocket. Write down your number 

I’ll wait until she’s ready. Lucía wrote down her digits with a trembling hand. When she handed the paper back, their fingers brushed. Good night, Sebastián. Good night, Lucía. She got out of the car, feeling his eyes following her until she entered the building. Only when the door closed did he start the engine. Lucía climbed the stairs like a zombie. 

Her whole body ached, but her heart, her heart felt strangely light. It was 2 p.m. on December 25th when there was a knock at the door. Lucía was in the kitchen of her mother’s small apartment preparing tamales for lunch. Emma was drawing at the table, still in her pajamas, surrounded by the old watercolors Lucía had managed to buy. 

“Who could it be?” Marisol murmured, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’ll get it!” Emma shouted, running to the door. “Emma, ​​wait.” Lucía dropped the knife, but her daughter had already opened it. On the other side was Sebastián Duarte, wearing jeans and a casual shirt, holding a large bag from an art supply store 

Emma looked at him curiously. Who are you, Emma? Don’t be rude. Lucia came running, her face red with embarrassment and surprise. Sebastian, what are you doing here? He looked nervous, like a teenager picking up his date. I thought Emma might be able to use some new materials, but I should have called first. I’m sorry. 

Is this your boyfriend, Mommy? Emma asked bluntly. Emma. Marisol appeared behind Lucia, her eyes assessing Sebastian suspiciously. Who is this man? Mommy, he’s a client we met last night at the restaurant. Marisol’s tone made it clear what she thought of wealthy clients who showed up at waitresses’ homes 

Sebastian extended his hand. Sebastian Duarte, ma’am, I know this is unexpected. Lucia mentioned that Emma likes to paint, and I was passing by and thought, “No one passes by here,” Marisol interrupted coldly. “And men who bring expensive gifts usually want something in return.” 

“Mom, it’s true, Lucia, you’ve forgotten how men like him operate.” Sebastian lowered his hand without offense. You’re right to be wary, ma’am. If my daughter were 7, I too would question any stranger who appeared, but I promise you my intentions are good. Your daughter showed me kindness last night when she didn’t have to. I just want to return the favor 

“Rich people don’t do anything without expecting something in return,” Marisol said, crossing her arms. However, she looked at the bag with bright eyes. “What’s in there, Sebastián?” She knelt down to be at his level. “Watercolors, brushes of different sizes, special painting paper. Your mom told me you like art. I love it, but my colors are old, so these are perfect.” 

Emma looked at her mother. “Can I keep them, Mommy?” Lucía was paralyzed. Part of her wanted to close the door, to protect Emma from future disappointment, but another part, the part that had seen Sebastián’s loneliness, that had heard his pain, knew this wasn’t manipulation. He was a lonely man seeking connection in the only way he knew how. “Emma, ​​go inside. I need to talk to Sebastián.” 

But Mommy, now Emma reluctantly obeyed. Marisol followed her, but shot Sebastián a warning look before leaving. Lucía went out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. “She can’t do this.” “I know, I should have called.” “It’s not that.” “She can’t. She can’t get attached to you only to disappear when she gets bored of playing family.” 

The words came out harsher than she intended. Sebastian nodded slowly. You’re right. I didn’t think. I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, about what she said about Emma wanting art supplies. And I was in my apartment alone, staring at the empty walls, and I thought maybe, maybe, what? Maybe I could be part of something real, even if only for an afternoon. 

Lucia felt her resolve crumbling. Sebastian, I have to protect my daughter. I know. Jorge broke her when he left. She doesn’t ask about him because she learned that asking hurts. I can’t let another man into her life if he’s not going to stay. And how do I know if I’m going to stay if she doesn’t give me a chance to try? The question hung between them, heavy with possibility 

“I don’t know,” Lucía admitted, “but I’m not going to risk my daughter’s heart by finding out. And hers—mine is already broken; I can handle it.” Sebastián looked at her with a tenderness that made her want to cry. “I don’t want to break any more hearts, Lucía, especially not hers. But last night she showed me that it’s possible to let go of the past. She showed me that there’s another way to live. I can’t go back to my empty life pretending that didn’t happen.” Lucía closed her eyes. 

“One afternoon can stay this afternoon, but if Emma asks anything uncomfortable, you answer honestly. And if at any point you decide this is too complicated, you tell me before she gets any more attached. Deal.” Lucía opened the door. Emma was pressed against it, clearly listening. She wasn’t eavesdropping 

Of course not, Lucía said sarcastically. Sebastián will stay for a while. But you’ll behave, understood? Yes. Emma grabbed Sebastián’s hand, pulling him inside. Marisol watched them from the kitchen with hawk-like eyes. The apartment was small, two bedrooms, a combined living and dining room, a cramped kitchen, but it was clean, warm, and filled with Emma’s photos and plants in the windows. Look at my drawings. Emma led him to the table where dozens of pieces of art covered every surface. 

Sebastián sat studying each one with genuine attention. This tree has incredible colors. How did you decide to use purple and orange together? Emma beamed at the serious question. Because that’s how the tree looks in my head. The real colors are boring. I agree. The real colors are very boring 

Do you paint? No, but I’d like to learn. I really would. Emma considered this. Then she asked, with the brutal honesty of children, why was he alone at Christmas? Lucia inhaled sharply, ready to intervene, but Sebastian stopped her with a look. He was sad for someone who had left a long time ago. 

Sometimes, when we’re sad, we forget that there are other people who love us, like my dad. The silence was absolute. I don’t know your dad, Sebastian said carefully. But I know your mom loves you very much, and your grandma too—that’s a lot of love—but you don’t have anyone. I didn’t, but meeting your mom last night helped me feel less alone 

Emma processed this, then nodded as if it made perfect sense. She’s good at that. She makes me feel better when I’m sad, too. So we’re lucky to have her. Emma smiled. Do you want me to teach you how to mix colors? I’d love to. They spent the next hour at the table, Emma patiently showing her how to make green by mixing blue and yellow, how to create different shades of pink, how water changed the intensity of the color. 

Sebastian was terrible at painting, but he listened to every instruction as if it were profound wisdom. Lucia watched them from the kitchen, her hands busy chopping vegetables, but her eyes never leaving them. Marisol worked beside her, also watching. He’s different, Marisol admitted finally. What? From Jorge, from other men. 

Look how she listens to Emma. She’s not faking interest. She really cares about what she says. Mom, don’t get emotional. It’s just an afternoon. I know, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen that light in your eyes. Lucia felt tears threatening. I’m scared. I know, honey, but you can’t let fear take away the possibility of something good 

At 4:00, Marisol served tamales, rice, and beans. Simple food, but made with love. Sebastián ate as if it were the best meal of his life, asking for seconds, which completely softened Marisol’s heart. “Does your mother cook like this?” Marisol asked. “She used to when I was a child. Now I eat at restaurants or order takeout. That’s sad.” 

Home-cooked food feeds the soul, not just the stomach. “She’s right. This is the best food I’ve had in years.” Emma showed off her latest creation, a drawing of three figures: a woman, a girl with one shorter leg, and a tall man. “That’s us,” Mommy explained, “me and Sebastián.” Lucía felt her throat close. “It’s beautiful, my love.” 

“Can I keep it?” Sebastian asked softly. “Really, really.” Emma gave it to him proudly. Sebastian held it as if it were a priceless treasure. At 6:00, as the sun began to set, Sebastian knew it was time to leave. “I should go, let them enjoy the rest of their Christmas with the family.” “You have to go,” Emma asked. “Yes, sweetheart, but I hope to see you soon.” 

“Do you promise?” Sebastian looked at Lucia. She nodded almost imperceptibly. “I promise.” At the door, Marisol gave him a surprise hug. “Take care of my daughter and my granddaughter. If you hurt them, I’ll find you.” “Understood, ma’am.” Lucia walked him into the hallway. They stood there, unsure how to say goodbye. “Thank you,” she finally said. 

“Why? For being real with Emma, ​​for not promising things you don’t know if you can keep. I can only promise that I’ll try. That’s enough.” Lucia took his hand, intertwining their fingers. “That’s enough.” They stood like that for a moment, holding hands like teenagers. They didn’t kiss. It was too soon, too fragile. But the promise was there 

When Sebastián left, Lucía went back inside. Emma had stuck her drawing on the refrigerator. Our Christmas, the title read in colorful letters. And for the first time in three years, Lucía felt that maybe, just maybe, her family could grow instead of just surviving. March 25, 2025. Sebastián Duarte looked at his calendar as he drank coffee in his apartment in Polanco. 

Friday, which meant dinner at Marisol’s at 7. His refrigerator, previously empty except for wine and mineral water, now contained milk for Emma, ​​ingredients to make breakfast, and Lucía’s leftovers in plastic containers. On the door was the drawing Emma had given her for Christmas 

Three figures with the title Our Christmas in colorful letters. Around them were more. A purple cat that Ema insisted was a lion, a tree that touched the sky, a house with windows in all the colors of the rainbow. His apartment, once a sterile, magazine-worthy space, now showed signs of life. Lucía’s jacket hung on the coat rack by the door. Her slippers were next to the sofa. 

One of Emma’s dolls rested on the coffee table, forgotten after his last visit. They didn’t live together, didn’t even talk about it yet, but the lines between their lives had blurred in the last three months. His phone buzzed. A message from Lucía. She was late from work. You can pick Ema up from therapy. Sebastián smiled. 

Three months ago, the idea of ​​picking up someone’s daughter from physical therapy would have terrified him. Now it was simply part of his Friday routine. He replied, “Of course. See you at your mom’s.” He put his phone away and looked around his apartment 

Three months ago, he spent Fridays working until 10 p.m., eating alone, drinking alone, sleeping in an apartment that felt like a mausoleum. Now he had plans, people waiting for him, a 7-year-old girl teaching him to mix colors, and a woman who had taught him that vulnerability wasn’t weakness, that he wasn’t perfect. Lucía still put up walls when she felt she was depending on him too much. He still struggled with opening up emotionally. 

They were arguing about money. She hated it when he tried to help financially. He hated seeing her work herself to exhaustion, but they were trying, and that was more than she’d had in 5 years. Lucia stormed out of the restaurant at 6:15, cursing the traffic that had held her up. Her shift had ended at 5, but a difficult customer had extended everything. She worked only one job. 

Now she had quit the lunch shift, not because of Sebastian, although he had offered financial help dozens of times, but because after a month of knowing each other, he had mentioned that his company was developing a mixed-income housing project: buildings where families of different incomes could live with dignity 

“We need someone who really understands what working families need,” he had said. Someone who has lived that reality, who can talk to communities and design with real empathy. Lucía had rejected the offer immediately. “I’m not going to work for you. It would seem like I’m your charity project. You’re not a charity. You dropped out of architecture in your fourth semester.” 

“You know more about urban design than half my team, and you’ve lived through exactly the experience we need to understand.” They had argued for weeks. Finally, Lucía had agreed under strict conditions. She would be officially hired by HR, not by him. She would report to the director of community development, not Sebastián. And the first month would be a trial. 

If it didn’t work out, she would leave without any hard feelings. It had been the best month of her professional life. Using her brain, not just her hands, talking to families like hers, designing spaces that actually served real people, but she still worked weekends off. She needed that independence, that proof that she could stand on her own 

Sebastian mostly understood, though they argued every time she came home exhausted from a double shift. “You don’t have to prove anything to yourself,” he’d say. “It’s not you I’m proving it to,” she’d reply, “It’s myself.” They were difficult conversations, but they had them, and that was progress. Emma was waiting outside the therapy clinic when Sebastian arrived 

Her therapist, Andrea, was chatting with her about her progress. Emma ran toward him with her slightly uneven gait. Her limp no longer bothered her. She had accepted it as part of who she was. “Hello, little artist. How was therapy?” “Good. Andrea says I’m improving a lot.” Andrea approached, smiling. “Emma is progressing wonderfully.” 

Her leg strength has improved significantly. That’s amazing. Are you Emma’s dad? The question hung awkwardly in the air. Sebastian looked at Emma, ​​unsure how to respond. Emma saved him with childlike honesty. “He’s not my dad, he’s Sebastian. He’s my mom’s boyfriend, but he’s much better than my dad.” Andrea smiled understandingly. 

Well, Sebastian, Emma is lucky to have you in her life. In the car, Emma chatted about her day while Sebastian navigated the traffic. “We’re going to Grandma’s.” “Yes. Your mom will be a little late getting from work. Can I show you my science project when we get there?” “Of course. It’s about mixing colors. Like you taught me.” 

Sebastian felt something warm expand in his chest. Three months ago, he was a man dining alone at the most expensive restaurant in town. Now he was someone a bright girl deemed worthy of showing her school projects to. This is what he was missing, he thought. Not a perfect relationship, but this. Real connection. People choosing me every day. Marisol opened the door before they knocked. As always. 

“You’re late,” she said to Sebastian, but without real reproach. The traffic was terrible. “You always say that. Come in, the food’s ready.” In three months, Marisol had gone from open distrust to cautious acceptance. She still watched him with a hawk-like eye during dinners. She still asked him difficult questions about his intentions. She still reminded him regularly 

“My granddaughter has already lost one father. She can’t lose another. But I also served her second helpings without her asking. I asked her about her mother, I told her stories about Lucía as a child. It was progress, slow, earned, real. Emma ran to her room, the second bedroom of the small apartment she shared with her grandmother when her mother worked late. 

Sebastián sat at the kitchen table, watching Marisol finish cooking. “How’s my daughter?” Marisol asked without turning around. “Fine, tired. The new job is demanding, and you don’t push her too hard. I try not to, but she knows how Lucía is. She wants to prove she can handle everything on her own.” Marisol turned, studying him. 

It’s because Jorge made her feel that needing help was a weakness. It will take her time to learn that accepting support isn’t giving up. I know. I’m trying to be patient. Good. Because if you break her heart, she’ll find me. I know, Mrs. Marisol. She reminds me of that every Friday.” She smiled slightly. “Good that you remember.” 

Lucía arrived at 7:20, disheveled and apologetic. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. The customer was terrible. And then the truck.” Sebastián stood up, taking her coat off her shoulders. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.” She kissed him briefly, still shy with public affection in front of her mother and Emma, ​​and slumped into a chair. 

“I’m exhausted. Eat, I’ll serve you.” They ate dinner as they did every Friday. Emma telling stories about school. Marisol commenting on the building gossip. Lucía and Sebastián exchanging knowing glances. It wasn’t glamorous. The apartment was small, the food was simple, the conversation was ordinary, but it was family 

Not the one they’d been given, but the one they’d chosen to build. After dinner, while Marisol and Emma washed the dishes, Lucía and Sebastián stepped out onto the small balcony. The city stretched out before them, lights twinkling to the horizon. “How was your day?” Lucía asked, leaning against him. “Fine, meetings called, the usual. 

Your partners asked about me.” There was tension in her voice. Last month, Sebastián had taken her to a dinner with his business partners and their wives. It had been difficult. The women, all in designer clothes and with perfect manicures, had been polite, but clearly curious, about Sebastián’s waitress girlfriend. One had asked where Lucía had studied 

Another had commented on his Oaxacan accent with barely veiled condescension. Lucía had smiled throughout dinner, but cried in the car on the way home. “I don’t belong in your world,” she had said. “Then we’ll change my world,” he had replied. Álvaro asked if you would be coming to the dinner next month. “Sebastián said carefully. I don’t know if I can stand another night of being looked at like I’m weird.” 

“Then we won’t go. Either we’ll go and leave early, or I’ll tell them exactly what I think of their classism.” Lucía laughed softly. “Don’t fight with your partners over me.” “I would. I know, and that’s terrifying and wonderful at the same time.” They sat in silence, listening to the sounds of the city. “My mom is starting to accept you,” Lucía said finally 

How do you know? He served you extra dessert. He only does that for people he cares about. Sebastian smiled. Then I’m honored. Emma keeps talking about you at school, too. Her teacher asked me if you finally have a stable father figure. What did you say? That we were seeing how things went, that you were important to us, but that we were taking things slowly. And is that true? Am I important to you? 

Lucía turned to look at him, her eyes serious. “You’re the scariest thing that’s happened to me in years. Because if this doesn’t work, you won’t just break me, you’ll break Emma. And I don’t know if I can risk that. Do you want me to walk away?” “No, but I need you to understand the responsibility. It’s not just me, it’s her.” Sebastián took her face in his hands. “I understand, and I promise I’ll never take that responsibility lightly.” 

If I ever feel I can’t be fully present, I’ll tell you before Emma gets hurt. “Okay. Okay. Okay.” They kissed softly, a promise sealed with tenderness. A week later, a letter arrived at Sebastián’s apartment. It was from the Crystal Palace 

Her annual reservation for December 24th. Sebastian brought it to dinner on Friday, placing it on the table as they ate. “What’s that?” Emma asked. “An invitation. The restaurant where I met your mom wants to know if I’ll make a reservation for Christmas this year.” Lucia looked at the letter, then back at him. “And will you?” Sebastian took out his phone and dialed the restaurant’s number. “Hello.” “Yes.” 

“I’m calling to cancel my annual reservation.” “Yes. The one for December 24th.” “No, I don’t need to reschedule.” “Thank you. Happy holidays.” He hung up and looked at Lucia, who had tears in her eyes. “Why did you do that?” “Because this year I’m going to spend Christmas with my family, not in a restaurant pretending to be okay, but here with you, if you’ll have me.” 

Emma squealed with excitement. Yes, Sebastián is going to spend Christmas with us. Marisol smiled from the kitchen. Then you’d better learn how to make tamales. I won’t let you come empty-handed. I’d love to learn, Mrs. Marisol. Lucía took Sebastián’s hand under the table, squeezing it tightly. They didn’t say, “I love you.” 

It was too soon for such big words, but the promise was there to try, to build, to choose each other every day. On Marisol’s refrigerator, Emma had taped a new drawing. It showed four figures around a table. Her, her mom, her grandma, and Sebastián. The title said My Family, and for the first time in years, none of them were pretending to be complete. 

They were simply together imperfectly, truly together. What did you think of Sebastián, Lucía, and Emma’s story? Leave your comments below. On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate this story? Subscribe to the channel and turn on notifications so you don’t miss any of our stories.