I will never forget that Saturday afternoon in Madrid.
My son and daughter-in-law had asked me to watch their two-month-old baby while they ran a few errands. I accepted with joy—after all, I had been waiting for any chance to spend time with my first grandchild. When they arrived, the little one was fast asleep in his stroller, wrapped snugly in a pale-blue blanket. After a quick goodbye, the door closed, and suddenly it was just the two of us.
Everything seemed perfectly ordinary at first. I prepared a warm bottle, made sure the room wasn’t too cold, and sat comfortably on the sofa with him in my arms. But only minutes later, he began to cry. Not a hungry cry. Not a tired cry. It was a painful, desperate wail that tightened something inside my chest.
