That was all.
That afternoon Leticia cooked chicken and rice for them, played cards with Santiago, braided Alma’s hair, and flipped through an old childhood photo album with them. Neither child mentioned “Uncle” Ricardo. No one spoke about the car accident.
Exactly two hours later Tomás returned. The children rushed out smiling brightly, each holding a drawing.
“How did it go, shorty?”
“My mom let me put glitter on the doll! And I beat her at memory,” Santiago bragged.
Tomás looked at Leticia. She didn’t speak—only nodded quietly.
Within a month, the visits increased to twice a week. Alma no longer followed her brother everywhere, and Santiago had already begun asking to spend the night at his mother’s house. Tomás discussed it with the therapist, who approved the idea.
That night the house felt enormous. It was the first time he had slept without the kids since the phone call that had nearly stopped his heart. He wandered through the living room, noticing the drawings taped to the wall, the small cup filled with crayons, the tiny shoes piled beside the door.
A strange emptiness filled him, but there was also a sense of calm he had almost forgotten. Maybe that was what healing meant—allowing things to settle back into place naturally.
Just before he fell asleep, his phone rang. It was a photo of Santiago and Alma in their pajamas, sitting on the bed with huge smiles on their faces. Leticia sent him a message: “They’re exhausted now. Everything’s fine. Thanks for giving us this chance.”
Tomás switched off his phone, lay down, and realized that in the end it wasn’t about winning or losing. It was about everyone learning to become better together.
Time moved forward, and their routine slowly re-formed. Santiago and Alma attended school in the mornings. Afternoons alternated between Tomás’s house and Leticia’s, and on some weekends the three of them met to walk in the park or wander around a plaza. Nothing forced—everything step by step.
One Sunday afternoon, while Tomás helped Santiago with homework, Alma stepped into the living room holding a drawing.
“Daddy, will you help me write something on this?”
Tomás sat beside her.
“What should we write?”
“I want to write a little letter to my mom.”
“Alright. Tell me what you want it to say.”
Alma thought carefully.
“Write: ‘My beautiful Mommy. I really like it when you read me my stories. Thank you for not leaving anymore. I love you very much.’”
“Okay, then. That’s exactly what I’ll write,” Tomás said, writing neatly on the paper.
Santiago, still focused on his notebook, muttered,
“What if she leaves again?”
Tomás set his pen down on the table.
“We can’t control what happens tomorrow, son. But today she’s here, and you two are doing well. That’s what we’ll hold on to.”
Santiago didn’t respond, but his expression softened. He looked less tense—more at ease.
The following Monday, Leticia picked them up from school. She brought a small bag of sweet bread and took them home for a snack. Soft music played in the background. They built block castles together, and afterward she made them hot chocolate.
“Can I stay over tonight?” Santiago suddenly asked.
Leave a Comment