“Olivia had savings,” he says quietly. “A life insurance policy. Not much, but enough.”
Your stomach flips. “No,” you say immediately. “No. That’s for Sonia.”
Elías steps closer, voice firm. “It is for Sonia,” he says. “Because Sonia needs you stable. And you need a roof.”
You shake your head, tears spilling. “I can’t take from her,” you whisper.
Elías’s eyes glisten. “You’re not taking,” he says. “You’re trading. You give her milk. You give her calm. You give her something I can’t buy.”
He lowers his voice, raw now. “You brought my daughter back to me alive in a way I didn’t think was possible.”
The words knock the breath out of you.
Because you realize he said my daughter like it finally feels real in his mouth again.
You swallow hard. “I don’t want people to think—”
“I don’t care what people think,” Elías cuts in. “They didn’t sit up all night with a baby turning purple from hunger. They didn’t bury Olivia. They didn’t bury Maximiliano.”
He takes a shaky breath. “We did.”
That night, Elías calls the town doctor and a lawyer in the city. He doesn’t ask permission, he just moves like a man who finally knows what he’s fighting for.
You sit at your table at home later, listening to your mother breathe in the next room, your father’s footsteps pacing softly. You feel fear crawling up your spine.
Then you feel your phone buzz again.
A message from Elías.
No estás sola. Mañana lo arreglamos.
You stare at the words until they soak into you like warmth.
The next morning, you meet Elías at a small office in town, the kind with dusty blinds and old coffee. Daniel arrives with a smirk, dressed too well for San Jacinto, as if he wants everyone to know he’s above the place you’re trapped in.
His lawyer flips through papers with bored efficiency.
Daniel doesn’t even look at you at first. He looks at Elías.
“Oh,” Daniel says, grin widening. “So it’s true.”
Elías doesn’t flinch.
“You have no right to speak to her,” Elías says calmly.
Daniel laughs. “Protective,” he says. “Cute.”
You want to disappear. You want to scream.
But then the lawyer clears his throat.
“There is an agreement,” the lawyer says, sliding papers across. “A buyout. Full. Immediate.”
Daniel’s smirk falters.
He flips through the pages, eyes narrowing as he sees the amount.
“You’re paying me?” Daniel says, shocked.
Elías’s voice is flat. “Yes,” he replies. “You take the money. You sign away every claim. And you never come near her again.”
Daniel’s eyes gleam. Greed always shows its teeth.
“But why would you—” he starts.
Elías leans forward slightly, eyes cold. “Because I have buried enough,” he says quietly. “I won’t watch someone else bury her life too.”
Daniel signs.
He signs so fast the pen almost tears the paper.
And just like that, the house is yours. Truly yours.
When you step outside into the winter air, your legs tremble like you’ve run miles.
Elías stands beside you, hands in his pockets, looking toward the mountains.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you whisper.
Elías’s gaze stays forward. “Yes,” he says. “I did.”
You turn to him, heart pounding. “Why?” you ask, voice cracking.
Elías finally looks at you, and his eyes are full in a way that scares you.
“Because Olivia is gone,” he says. “And Maximiliano is gone. And Sonia is here.”
He pauses, swallowing hard.
“And you’re here,” he adds. “And I refuse to lose another good thing because I was too afraid to hold it.”
Your throat tightens.
You want to run from that sentence, because hope is terrifying after loss.
But Sonia cries from inside the office, thin and urgent, reminding you the world doesn’t pause for your fear.
Weeks pass again.
Sonia grows chubbier. Her cheeks fill out. Her cries turn louder, stronger, healthier. She starts to smile at you when you walk in, like you’re sunrise.
And your milk keeps coming, but it doesn’t feel like a curse anymore.
It feels like your body learned a new purpose.
One night, when you’re leaving Elías’s house, snow falling softly, he walks you to the gate. The world is quiet enough that you can hear your own heartbeat.
He clears his throat. “People will keep talking,” he says.
You nod. “I know.”
Elías takes a breath. “Let them,” he says. “Because the truth is… I don’t want you to stop coming.”
Your chest tightens.
“I can’t stay forever,” you whisper, because you’re scared of what that might mean.
Elías nods slowly. “Then don’t stay for me,” he says. “Stay for her. And maybe… maybe for you too.”
You look back through the window and see Sonia asleep in her crib, bunny-soft, breathing steady. You imagine Maximiliano’s face, the one you never saw awake.
Your eyes sting.
You turn back to Elías. “What happens when my milk dries?” you ask.
Elías’s voice is quiet. “Then we figure it out,” he says. “Like people who don’t run.”
The words land deep.
