The little girl with her mother’s eyes. The little girl with the same golden glitter.
The girl whose existence he had never known.
The girl, who now looked up at him and asked, with that clear, innocent voice that silenced the entire Calle Serrano on New Year’s Eve:
— Are you my dad?
A murmur of surprise rippled through the small crowd that had gathered around us. The snow was falling harder, enveloping the world in a suspended, white silence.
My heart stopped beating.
Miguel knelt slowly, his luxurious coat getting damp in the snow without him noticing. He reached out a trembling hand and caressed Lucía’s cheek with infinite tenderness.
« I… I don’t know, my dear, » he said softly, his voice choked with emotion. « But I would really like to know. »
Lucía examined it with the seriousness of a young judge. Then she nodded, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. « Mom says my dad must have been somewhere else. Were you somewhere else? »
A single tear slid down Miguel’s face. — Yes, I was there — he said in a hoarse voice. — But I didn’t know it.
I couldn’t breathe anymore. The truth I had buried under eight years of fear and loneliness had just resurfaced. And it threatened to destroy us all.
We ended up in a small café two streets away. A warm place, exposed brick walls, dim lights, the smell of freshly ground coffee. An impromptu refuge in the middle of the storm that had just hit our lives.
Lucía happily sipped her hot chocolate covered with a mountain of marshmallows, unaware of the eight-year chasm that opened between Miguel and me above that small table.
« Is it mine? » Miguel asked quietly as soon as Lucía focused on her drawing on the napkin. The question hung in the air, filled with hope and fear.
I looked at my trembling hands on my knees. I couldn’t look at him yet. — Yes — I breathed, and the word sounded fragile, broken. — You are his father.
Miguel squeezed his eyes shut, but couldn’t hold back the tears that streamed down his cheeks. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with a silent sob. « Eight years… » he murmured behind his palms. « His first word, his first steps, his first day of school… I missed everything. »
Her voice was like a knife in my gut. « I thought I was protecting you, » I said hastily, my apology sounding hollow even to my own ears. « You were going to take that job in London. It was the chance of a lifetime. I couldn’t tie you down with a baby. I didn’t want to be the woman who ruined your dreams. »
Miguel’s eyes snapped open, burning with disbelief and pain. « London? Julia, I turned down that job! I turned down that damn job for you! That night, the night you disappeared, I went to your place to tell you. I had flowers, champagne… I was ready to get down on my knees. But you weren’t there anymore. You were gone. Vanished. »
The floor gave way beneath me. The walls of the café seemed to close in. — You… you refused it?
« I chose you, » he said, his voice hoarse. « I always chose you, Julia. »
Then my own tears fell, burning and bitter. Tears of regret for a monumental mistake that had cost three people eight years of their lives. — I was twenty, Miguel. I was terrified. My parents had turned their backs on me; I had no one. I thought that if I told you, you’d stay out of pity… or leave, hating me for putting you in this situation.
« So you decided for both of us, » he said bitterly. Then his tone softened, giving way to immense sadness. « You should have trusted me. You should have let me choose. »
— I know — I whispered. — I’m so sorry.
On the other side of the table, Lucía looked up from her drawing, sensing the tension. « Are you two arguing? »
Miguel wiped his eyes and forced a smile. « No, darling. We’re just… making up for lost time. »
Lucía tilted her head, not entirely convinced. — Mistress Patricia says that when people love each other, they should talk before making important decisions.
Despite everything, a trembling laugh escaped Miguel. — Your mistress Patricia is a very wise woman.
I laugh too, a slightly broken but real laugh. Maybe it was time to stop running away. Maybe it was time to speak up.
The following evening, Christmas Eve, Miguel came to dinner at our tiny apartment in Lavapiés. The invitation had been awkward, hesitant, but he had accepted without thinking. He wasn’t wearing an expensive suit, but jeans and a gray sweater that made him look younger, more approachable. In his arms, he carried gifts wrapped in colorful paper.
Lucía gave a cry of joy as she opened them: a science experiment kit, a stack of adventure books and, finally, a delicate gold medallion.
« You can put a picture of your mom in it, » Miguel explained, showing her how it opened. « And maybe one of me… if you want. »
Lucía hugged him so tightly that she almost took his breath away. — Thank you, Dad.
The word — dad — spoken so naturally struck Miguel like a ray of sunshine after a storm. He blinked several times to hold back his tears.
Dinner was modest—roast chicken and potatoes, nothing like the feasts he was used to—but the apartment filled with a warmth I hadn’t felt in a long time. Lucía’s laughter filled everything, and for the first time I saw how easily he fit into our little world. Serving the sauce, helping Lucía chop the vegetables, sharing childhood Christmas memories that made my daughter’s eyes light up.
Later, when Lucía fell asleep on the sofa, snuggled between the two of us, Miguel whispered:
« I’m not going to take her from you, Julia. You don’t have to be afraid of that. I just want to be her father. »
The relief was so intense that I almost felt dizzy. — Thank you.
He smiled, a sad but genuine smile. « You did an incredible job picking her up all by yourself. You can see how much she loves you. She’s a wonderful little girl. »
And there, under the soft light of the fir tree, I understood that forgiveness, like a small seed, was beginning to grow in the damaged soil of our past.
The following weeks were a whirlwind. A succession of lawyers, paternity tests, and difficult conversations.
Miguel arranged the DNA test. The day the results arrived, I was filled with an absurd fear. What if I was wrong? But the paperwork confirmed it: 99.99%. He hired the best lawyers to draft a fair custody agreement: joint parental authority, with Lucía living primarily with me, but with broad and flexible visitation rights. He created a fund for her education, set up a generous allowance that I initially refused, and added us both to his private health insurance plan. He did everything right, everything a responsible father would do.
But the most important thing wasn’t the paperwork. It was his presence. He came every weekend. Three times a week at lunchtime. To every school performance, sitting in the front row with his camera, beaming with pride.
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