The white sheet of paper trembled in Lucía’s tiny hands.
She was only four years old, but the paper felt impossibly heavy—like it carried a question too big for her small chest.
The preschool classroom smelled of finger paint and afternoon cookies. Around her, other children proudly lifted their drawings: stick houses with smoking chimneys, oversized suns in the corner, and three smiling figures holding hands.
Mom. Dad. Child.
Mom, Mom, Daughter.
Dad, Mom, Baby Brother.
Lucía’s drawing was different.
It had only two figures.
One tall. One small.
And an empty space between them, like a chair no one dared to sit on.
“Why does my picture only have two people?” she asked.
Her voice cracked, as if it needed permission just to exist.
The teacher knelt beside her, wearing the soft smile adults learn after years of comforting small heartbreaks.
“Sweetheart,” she said gently, “families are different. Some have two people, some have more…”
Lucía tightened her grip on a red crayon like it was a life preserver.
“But Sofía asked me…” she whispered. “She said, ‘Where’s your mom?’ And I… I didn’t know what to say. I told her I don’t know.”
The Question That Shattered Him
When Martín Solís arrived to pick her up, the teacher was waiting at the door.
She had that look—reserved for news that hurts.
“Mr. Solís… Lucía had a hard day today. The activity was drawing families. She cried, and…” her voice lowered, “…she asked about her mother.”
Martín felt the floor soften beneath his feet.
He saw his daughter in the corner of the classroom, hugging her backpack like it held everything she needed to stay upright.
He crouched down in front of her.
“Princess… what happened?”
Lucía looked at him, and her eyes filled like she’d been holding back an ocean.
“Daddy… why don’t I have a mommy like the other kids?”
Something broke inside his chest.
He picked her up, pressed her against him, and for a moment—he couldn’t speak.
The Lie Children Create to Survive
In the car, Lucía stared out the window in silence.
Her drawing was crumpled against her chest like a secret.
“My mommy left because I was a bad baby,” she said suddenly, with a certainty no four-year-old should carry.
Martín pulled over.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
“No,” he said firmly, turning to her. “Listen to me. You did nothing wrong. Nothing. You are perfect.”
“Then… why did she leave?”
And there it was.
The truth Martín had hidden behind routines, toys, and forced smiles.
Carolina had left when Lucía was six months old. A short note. I’m not ready. And then—silence.
A silence that lasted years.
“Sometimes adults make choices because of things inside them,” he said carefully. “It has nothing to do with you. But I—” his voice shook, “—I will never leave you. Do you believe me?”
Lucía nodded.
But the drawing still crushed her chest.
The Wish That Terrified Him
That night, in the apartment that felt too clean for a child, Lucía sat on the floor with crayons and paper.
Martín cooked dinner without appetite.
He heard her talking to herself, like she was rehearsing a dream.
“This is my mommy… she has long hair… she makes braids…”
He peeked around the corner.
She was drawing a third figure.
A woman in a purple dress, red shoes, and a giant smile.
“What are you doing, love?” he asked.
“I’m drawing the mommy I want.”
Martín sat beside her.
Her birthday was in three days.
“What do you want for your birthday?” he asked, already fearing the answer.
Lucía looked up with enormous brown eyes.
“I want a mommy at my party. Just for a little while. So it’s not unfair. So people don’t look at me funny. I want her to make braids… sing with me… hug me when I have nightmares.”
Martín hugged her tightly.
And in the darkness of his own thoughts, a ridiculous idea appeared.
Absurd. Impossible.
But desperation makes impossible doors look real.
The Stranger at the Bakery
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