Leonardo appeared in the living room, his white shirt unbuttoned and his brow furrowed. His hair was slightly disheveled, and he held a cardboard folder in his hand. Claudia remained motionless, clutching the cloth between her fingers. He headed straight for the kitchen. As soon as he entered, he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Renata sitting on the floor, engrossed in her drawing.
Claudia felt her stomach clench. She took a deep breath, stepped forward, and explained that she had no one to leave her daughter with, that it would only be for a few hours, and that she promised she wouldn’t be a bother. Leonardo said nothing; he leaned forward slightly, rested his hands on his knees, and looked at Renata’s drawing. It was a huge house with a little girl in the garden and a bright sun in the corner.
Renata saw him and, without fear, said, « This is your house, sir, and this is my role. » Leonardo blinked, remained silent for a few seconds, then straightened his posture, adjusted his shirt, and, to Claudia’s surprise, smiled. A barely perceptible smile, as if something had just been unlocked within him.
“Okay,” he said simply, and left the kitchen. Claudia didn’t know what to think. She had never seen him like this. Señor Leonardo wasn’t rude, but he wasn’t warm either. He was a serious man with a hard gaze who rarely said more than necessary. But that smile—she hadn’t expected it. She went back to cleaning, her heart in turmoil, glancing at Renata out of the corner of her eye.
The little girl continued drawing calmly, as if nothing were amiss. At precisely 9 o’clock, he came back downstairs. Claudia braced herself for a reprimand, but it didn’t come. Leonardo sat down at the dining room table and ordered coffee. Then, from his chair, he asked Renata her name.
She answered naturally, as if they were friends. He asked her what she liked to do, and she replied: draw, run, and eat brioche. Leonardo laughed. A low, but genuine laugh. Claudia understood that something strange was happening and didn’t know if she should be worried. The rest of the morning was different. Leonardo stayed home longer.
He went out into the garden to make a few phone calls, but before leaving, he asked Claudia if Renata could play there for a while. She didn’t know what to say; she simply replied yes, if it wasn’t a problem, and told him no, that she was happy to see her there. Claudia stared at him, unsure how to react. As she swept the path, she saw her daughter running between the bushes, giggling to herself, and Leonardo, sitting on a bench, watching in silence.
The man who, three years earlier, had lost his wife and had lived like a shadow ever since, seemed to come back to life that day. Claudia didn’t understand what was happening, but for the first time in a long time, she felt that perhaps things could change, and it had all begun like any other day. Renata sat cross-legged on the lawn, picking small flowers and arranging them in piles by color.
She wore a white blouse stained with orange juice that laundry detergent hadn’t been able to remove, and a ponytail that had already loosened. While playing, she talked to herself, as children do, inventing stories where one flower was the mother, another the father, and together they took care of their little ones: the petals.
Claudia watched her from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands with an old rag. She was worried she might make noise or make a mess. She didn’t want to give anyone any reason to tell her she couldn’t bring her anymore. Leonardo was in his office, as usual. There was the rustling of papers and a conversation on speakerphone.
Claudia didn’t understand what he was talking about, but his voice was confident, the kind that commands attention even without seeing you. When Renata began to sing softly while arranging the flowers, Claudia wanted to run and silence her, but before she could move, Leonardo came out. He had his phone in his hand and looked tired. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the little girl singing.
Claudia froze. She’d expected him to say something, to ask for silence, to demand why she was still there, and yet nothing happened. Leonardo slipped the phone into his pocket and approached slowly, without Claudia understanding. He crouched down to the child’s level and asked her what she was singing.
Renata looked at him, thought for a second, then named a cartoon. She asked him if he watched it too. Leonardo chuckled. No, he didn’t watch it, he said. But he liked the way she sang. Claudia didn’t know what to do. It was like seeing a different person.
The same man who had walked by without a word, barely noticing others, was there, crouching, chatting with a four-year-old girl about cartoon songs. Renata carried on talking as if nothing were amiss. She explained that one flower was the mother flower, another the father flower, and that they took care of the little ones. Leonardo nodded as if he truly understood, then stood up. He laughed. A soft but genuine laugh. And he wasn’t the only one.
Renata added something about playful petals escaping from the garden, and he let out another laugh, low but clear. A lump formed in Claudia’s throat. She couldn’t tell if it was joy, surprise, or fear. Seeing him laugh like that was like seeing rain in the middle of the desert. It clearly didn’t happen to him often.
He stayed with the little girl for a while longer, watching her sort the flowers by color. He asked her if she liked being there. Renata replied that she did, that it was like a park with a roof, and that she would like to live there. Leonardo looked at her seriously for a moment, then smiled again. A few minutes later, he turned to Claudia and told her that she could let the little girl play there as much as she wanted, that it wasn’t a problem.
Claudia could only manage a murmured thank you. He simply left, as if everything were normal, but for Claudia, it wasn’t at all. Later, while she was cleaning the corridor leading to the library, Claudia paused for a moment when she heard Leonardo’s laughter again. This time, it was coming from the office. It wasn’t loud or exaggerated. But it was there.
This had never happened before. Claudia glanced discreetly. She didn’t want to spy, just watch. She saw Leonardo sitting at his desk and Renata in a chair opposite him. The girl was holding a sheet of paper with drawings, and he was studying them intently. Suddenly, the child looked up and said something Claudia didn’t hear, but it made Leonardo laugh again. Claudia tiptoed away.
She didn’t want to interrupt. She didn’t know how long this kind attitude would last, but she was determined not to spoil it. The cook, Marta, a woman in her fifties who had worked in the house for years, approached Claudia as they gathered towels from the guest bathroom.
In a low voice, she told him she’d never seen the boss like this, that since Señora Daniela’s death, he no longer laughed, spoke only when absolutely necessary, and didn’t let anyone into his personal space. « And now, this child has taken him into her world, » she commented, surprised. Claudia could only shrug. She didn’t want to get her hopes up. She didn’t know what any of this meant. At lunchtime, Leonardo asked for an extra place setting. Claudia assumed it was for a guest, but it wasn’t.
He said Renata would eat, and the little girl sat down happily, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. She asked for flavored water, and Marta served her hibiscus. Leonardo said nothing; he simply watched her. He asked her if she liked beans. Renata replied that she did, but that once she had eaten some that tasted like dirt. He laughed again.
Claudia stayed by the stove, unsure whether it was right or wrong. Leonardo called her by her first name, something he rarely did. He told her she could eat something if she wanted, not to worry. Claudia simply replied that she was fine. Thank you. But she didn’t eat. Her stomach was in knots.
That afternoon, as she was leaving, Renata ran to say goodbye to Leonardo. She gave him a pastel drawing. It was of a man in a tie with a little girl holding his hand. Leonardo looked at it, remained silent for a few seconds, then put it in his desk drawer without saying anything.
He simply ruffled her hair and told her to be good. On the bus ride home, Renata asked her mother if they could come back the next day. Claudia didn’t know what to say. She looked out the window, her eyes moist and her heart heavy. Something was changing. She could feel it, but she didn’t know how to trust it. She had learned not to expect too much from anyone.
Sometimes, when something good happened, it was only the prelude to something worse. That evening, after some rice and eggs, Claudia put Renata to bed. The little girl fell asleep quickly, clutching the same stuffed animal she always had. Claudia sat on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Too many things were on her mind. Leonardo, his laugh, the way he looked at his daughter: she didn’t understand what was happening, but part of her was afraid, because just when life started to get better, something always came along to ruin everything. And at the same time, she couldn’t deny having seen something in that man’s eyes, something broken but longing to escape. And the strangest thing was that her daughter, without realizing it,
It was she who had opened the door. From that morning on, something changed in the house. It wasn’t said or agreed upon, but from then on, Renata began accompanying Claudia every day. The first week was like walking on thin ice. Claudia expected that at any moment she would be told that she couldn’t bring her anymore, that she was breaking the rules, that she had to find a babysitter, something.
But that didn’t happen. On the contrary, every day Leonardo greeted them with a barely perceptible smile. Sometimes he asked what Renata had eaten for breakfast. Other times, he ventured into the garden to watch her play, but there was always a gesture. Small, yes, but sincere. Deep down, Claudia didn’t know whether to feel reassured or even more nervous. She had never seen this side of him.
In truth, she wasn’t the only one surprised; Marta, the cook, and José, the caretaker, were too. Marta even whispered to her one day, while they were peeling potatoes, that this little girl had managed what no adult had ever been able to do: draw a thread of joy from the boss. The days became less burdensome. Claudia cleaned more calmly, without the constant fear of being fired. She felt she could breathe, even if not completely.
Renata, meanwhile, had claimed a corner of the garden as her own. There she had a small bench, a box with crayons and paper, and a few toys brought from home. She remained almost always silent, talking to herself, humming softly, or pretending that the pebbles were children and the leaves their little schoolbags. One afternoon, while Claudia was mopping the hallway that led to the main living room, Leonardo approached.
Not to give an order or ask anything about work: he wanted to talk. He asked how Renata was, if she was often sick, if she was eating well. Claudia answered defensively, not understanding why he was so interested. Leonardo crossed his arms and said that some children don’t eat well because of a lack of money or time, that sometimes life just doesn’t allow it. Claudia looked at him, surprised.
It wasn’t common to hear him speak like that, like someone who understood the difficulty of living day to day. Then, simply, he left. Every time they crossed paths, he had something to say, sometimes a comment about the weather, other times about Renata. One day, he even asked her if she knew how to make chipotle dumplings because it reminded him of his mother.
Claudia replied that yes, it was the first thing she had learned to cook after getting married. He nodded, said he’d like to try it someday, and left. That sentence stayed with him all day. Renata continued to win everyone over without even trying. José, the caretaker, offered her a strawberry ice cream bar one afternoon. Marta started setting aside a sweet breakfast roll for her.
Even Señora Dolores, the eldest daughter who came every week to arrange the flowers, taught her how to cut the stems and put them in water. The little girl didn’t cause any trouble; on the contrary, she made everything seem lighter. One morning, Leonardo was in the garden on the phone. Renata approached with her little notebook in her hand.
Claudia, who was cleaning the windows, saw her and wanted to run to stop her, but she remained motionless. Leonardo finished the call and leaned over to look at the drawing Renata was showing him. It was a tree with apples. She explained that it was the boss’s tree because he was the one who ran the house. He laughed and said that he didn’t really run the show that much, that everyone did what they wanted. Renata replied that it was fine, because if he ran the show too much, his laughter would disappear.
Claudia watched them from afar, unable to understand how her daughter could express such simple yet profound truths. Leonardo no longer isolated himself as he once did. He continued to work, of course, but he allowed himself breaks. He walked in the garden, sometimes even sitting on the bench where Renata played.
Once, he confided in her that, as a child, he too used to make piles of pebbles, but that his mother would get angry because he soiled his trousers. Renata laughed and told him that she didn’t have a father, but that her mother never got angry. Leonardo remained serious; he didn’t reply, only ruffled her hair. That night, Claudia couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about what the little girl had said, about how she had said it.
It was true. Renata didn’t have a father, and she tried not to let that absence weigh on her, but it was there. And without looking for it, without even realizing it, she found a figure in Leonardo. That frightened her because she knew they couldn’t have a life there. He was their boss.
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