Until one day—thirty years later—Javier appeared.
His hair was gray. His suit expensive. His confidence gone. He was ill and needed a compatible transplant. A private investigator had led him to us.
He asked to meet. I agreed—not for him, but for my children.
We sat across from each other. He studied their faces, doubt still lingering in his eyes. Then Daniel placed the documents on the table: DNA results, medical reports, everything.
Javier’s face drained of color. He read them again and again.
“So…” he whispered, “they were mine?”
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