Upon arriving at the city hospital, a modern, cold building of glass and steel, Lucía smoothed her hair in the reflection of the automatic doors and walked toward the reception desk. Her heart pounded.

However, when she reached the maternity waiting room, her smile froze. She didn’t see Marcos waiting for her with open arms. She saw him at the end of the corridor, pacing back and forth, nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

When Marcos saw her, he didn’t rush to her.

He approached slowly, shuffling, with an expression Lucía knew well from when he was a child and had broken a vase: guilt and fear.

“Son!” she exclaimed, trying to ignore his body language. “I’ve come as fast as I could. How are Elena and the baby? Can I see him now?”