The weight of his actions crashed down on him like an avalanche. He had almost killed his wife and his true child because of a ridiculous, archaic obsession with a male heir. He had sent her away on a bumpy, exhausting eight-hour bus ride while heavily pregnant, completely indifferent to whether she lived or died. And in return for his cruelty, fate had stripped him of everything: his money, his pride, his mistress, and his future.
“What have I done?” he whispered into the empty car, his voice cracking. “What have I done?”
Driven by a sudden, desperate panic, Javier started the engine. He didn’t care about his job, his apartment, or the mocking messages that were starting to flood his WhatsApp groups from friends asking why he deleted the photo of “his son.” He only had one thought in his mind: Puebla. He had to get to Puebla. He had to beg for forgiveness, even if he had to crawl on his knees.
The drive to Puebla usually took around two and a half hours, but to Javier, it felt like an eternity in purgatory. Every kilometer of asphalt reminded him of the journey he had forced Lucía to take alone, with nothing but a heavy suitcase and a broken heart.
By the time he arrived in the small, colonial town on the outskirts of Puebla, the sun had already set, casting long, dark shadows over the cobblestone streets. He knew where Lucía’s mother lived—a small, humble house with a vibrant blue door and pots of geraniums lining the windows.
He parked his car haphazardly and ran toward the house. Through the window, he could see the warm, soft glow of a yellow lamp. He could hear a faint, gentle lullaby being hummed inside.
Javier raised his hand to knock, but before his knuckles could touch the wood, the door swung open. Doña Herrera stood there. Her face, lined with the wisdom and hardships of age, hardened into stone the moment she saw him.
“You have a lot of nerve showing up here,” she said, her voice low but fiercely sharp.
“Mother… please,” Javier gasped, tears streaming down his face. “I made a mistake. A horrible, unforgivable mistake. I was blind, I was stupid… Valeria lied to me, the boy wasn’t mine—”
“Ah,” Doña Herrera interrupted, letting out a cold, humorless chuckle. “So you only realized the value of your wife and daughter because your fancy mistress cheated on you? If that boy had been yours, would you be standing on my doorstep tonight crying like a dog?”
Javier choked on his words, unable to answer. She had pierced right through his pathetic defense.
“Please, let me see Lucía. Let me see my daughter. I want to provide for them. I have… I can find money. I’ll do anything,” Javier pleaded, dropping to his knees on the concrete porch.
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