She held her son’s little hand tightly,
as if the world could snatch it away,
and followed the direction of that small finger.
There, among balloon vendors
and the murmur of pigeons,
a barefoot child offered sweets in a cardboard box.
She was wearing a stained t-shirt,
ripped shorts,
and her skin was tanned from the sun…
But what left Daniela speechless
was not the clothes,
nor the obvious poverty.
It was the face.
Brown curls.
The same eyebrow shape.
The same nose shape.
The same gesture of biting her lower lip when she looked intently.
And on his chin,
a small birthmark…
identical to Mateo’s.
“It’s him,” Mateo insisted,
gently tugging at her blouse.
“The boy of my dreams.
We played far away.
Mom… he was with you… with me.”
Daniela swallowed.
Continue on the next page:
