“I still haven’t forgiven you,” she said when Gabriel came back.
— I know.
— But I heard you.
— For now, that’s enough.
The days that followed were slow and fragile. Gabriel did not try to purchase her forgiveness. He cooked, accompanied her to appointments, slept on the sofa, and learned not to intrude on her space. Lucía watched.
One afternoon, after an ultrasound, the doctor smiled.
— It’s a boy.
Lucía covered her mouth with her hand. Gabriel received the printed image as though someone had handed him the blueprint for an entirely new life.
“He looks angry,” he said, studying the photo.
Lucía almost smiled.
— He got that from his father.
It was their first joke together.
Gabriel bought baby clothes, diapers, a stuffed bear, and yellow paint for the baby’s room — because Lucía said it received morning light, and that yellow seemed like a brave color.
One early morning, Lucía knocked on Gabriel’s door.
— I think it’s started.
At the hospital, the hours stretched on. Lucía gripped his hand, cried, cried out, and begged him not to leave.
“I’m here,” he said again and again. “You’re not going to do this alone.”
Then the monitor sounded different. The doctor’s expression shifted. The baby’s heart rate was slowing.
Lucía opened her eyes, terrified.
— No, no, please…
Gabriel pressed his lips to her forehead.
— She’s strong. Like you.
The minutes that followed felt eternal.
And then — a cry filled the room.
Furious.
Alive.
