As I stepped into the apartment, the familiar scents of lavender and freshly brewed coffee surrounded me like a warm embrace. It felt as if I had traveled back in time. Every aspect of the space—the stacked books, the vintage rug, the pale blue curtains—seemed like a gentle echo of the life we once shared.
And then, I saw her.
On the living room wall, above the small velvet sofa, hung a framed photograph. What I saw sent a chill down my spine.
There was a child. A young boy with brown eyes, dark hair, and a sweet smile. He appeared to be around four years old. He sat nestled in the arms of Althea, who beamed at the camera with the same sparkle in her eyes that I hadn’t seen in over five years.
But it wasn’t merely the image that took my breath away. It was that subtle yet devastating detail: the child… had my smile.
“Who is he?” I asked, my throat tightening.
Althea averted her gaze, taking a deep breath.
“That’s Daniel.”
“Your son?”
She nodded, unable to meet my eyes.
A torrent of thoughts washed over me like a wave. How could this be? She was infertile. I remembered every doctor’s appointment, every test, every tear shed. I recalled the nights I held her close, trying to alleviate her suffering.
“But… the doctors… they said…”
“I know what they said,” she interrupted, her voice low and trembling. “And they were correct. I couldn’t have children.”
I fell silent. Then, who was this child?
She turned to me, tears glistening on her cheeks.
“I adopted him.”
The words lingered in the air like a heavy fog.
“After we separated,” she continued, “I joined an adoption program. I thought I’d never have the courage to love again. But one day, when I visited a shelter in Tlaquepaque, I spotted this boy sitting in a corner, drawing with a broken pencil. He looked up at me… and in those eyes, I saw something.” A loneliness I recognized.
Althea smiled through her tears.
“He had been abandoned as well. He lost his parents in an accident. I embraced him, and it felt as if something inside me had awakened.”
She lowered her gaze.
“His name was Daniel. I didn’t change it. He was already Daniel. And, ironically… it was the name you wanted to give our son, remember?”
My heart sank. I recalled the nights spent discussing children, names, a future that never came to pass. Daniel. The name remained between us like an unfulfilled dream.
I stared at the photograph, unsure what to say. The child smiled innocently, unaware of the weight of the story.
“He looks like me,” I whispered, almost unconsciously.
She took a deep breath.
“I know. That’s why it took me so long to tell you. Because every time I saw him smile, I saw a piece of you.”
The rain pounded against the windows, as if the sky were weeping.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I managed, trying to steady my quivering voice.
“Because I thought I didn’t have the right to hurt you again,” she replied. “I knew you wanted to be a father, but not with me. And when I finally succeeded in adopting him, I thought you had moved on.”
She ran her fingers through her hair, weary.
“I lived with the guilt for years. I thought I freed you from the burden of an ‘imperfect’ woman, but in the end… it was me who carried the pain.”
I was at a loss for words. Everything I felt—anger, compassion, sadness—intertwined into an impossible knot.
“I never wanted to be free from you,” she finally said. “I only wanted to see you happy. But I think I never understood how much you were suffering inside.”
She looked at me, surprised, and then, for the first time in many years, our eyes connected without resentment.
“He’s sleeping,” she said softly. “Do you want to see him?”
I nodded.
We walked to the small room at the end of the hall. The walls were decorated with colorful drawings: houses, trees, and the figures of a woman and a man holding hands with a child in the middle.
“He said it’s us,” Althea whispered. “Me, my mom, and the angel he dreams about.”
A shiver coursed through me. The child slept peacefully, cradling a teddy bear. I approached slowly and, without thinking, gently brushed my fingers through his hair.
“He’s beautiful,” I murmured.
Althea nodded, her eyes glistening with tears.
“He is the greatest gift life has ever given me.”
We remained there for a while, silently watching that little miracle breathe easily. And in that moment, I realized something I had never understood: true love is not about what fate takes away from us, but about what we can still give, even after losing everything.
That night, before I left, Althea walked me to the door. The rain had stopped, and the air smelled of wet earth.
“Thank you for coming in,” she said.
She smiled.
“Perhaps fate brought you here today. I’ve thought a lot about you, you know? Sometimes Daniel asks me why he doesn’t have a father. I tell him his father lives in the sky… but the truth is, the sky has always had your face.”
My heart sank.
“If you want, I can come and visit him from time to time.”
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
“I think he would appreciate that.”
We parted with a long, silent embrace. And for the first time in a long while, I felt that the past was no longer an open wound, but a scar I could touch without pain.
The following months ushered in a new routine. I began visiting Daniel on weekends. We played ball, built models with cardboard boxes, and he called me “Uncle Andrés.”
Althea watched from a distance, always wearing that tender smile. Sometimes, we stayed up late talking, reminiscing and laughing about the silliness of our youth. The friendship that once was love was reborn in a new form—calm, mature, beautiful.
One day, while helping Daniel build a castle with blocks, he asked:
“Uncle, why don’t you and mom live together?”
I was speechless. Althea, who was in the kitchen, froze.
“Because…” I began slowly, “sometimes people who care for each other need to live in different houses to learn how to understand each other again.”
He frowned thoughtfully, then said something that disarmed me:
“Then learn quickly, so you can be together.”
I looked at Althea. She smiled, tears in her eyes.
Time passed. Daniel grew, and I became an inseparable part of his life. Visits turned into dinners, dinners turned into short trips, and without realizing it, we were a family again—imperfect, but genuine.
One Sunday, during a picnic at Metropolitan Park, Daniel ran off to gather flowers. When he returned, he offered one to me and one to his mother.
“Now you two need to get married again,” he said, laughing.
Althea laughed too, but in her eyes was something different—a distant, sweet sparkle, just like the one we shared when we were young.
That evening, after putting him to bed, she called me to the porch. The breeze was gentle and the sky was clear.
“You know…” she said, “sometimes I think that God never intended for us to have a biological child. He wanted us to have Daniel. He was just waiting for us to find each other again.”
I gazed at her, and for the first time in years, everything seemed to click into place.
“I believe destiny was just waiting for the right moment,” I replied.
She smiled, and then, without words, we embraced. Time stood still. The past, with all its pain, finally seemed to find peace in the present.
Five years after that rainy night, the photograph on the wall had changed. It now displayed three faces: hers, mine, and Daniel’s, all smiling with the same light as before—only this time, without absences, without guilt, without secrets.
And every time I look at that photo, I remember what I learned too late: that true love does not have to be perfect to last; it just needs to be sincere enough to begin anew.
Because sometimes, the deepest mistake we make isn’t losing the person we love—it’s thinking that love has ended when it was simply waiting for a new reason to exist.