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Ricardo didn’t breathe.
Nobody moved.
Isabela stared at the spoon on the floor.
Then she looked toward the kitchen.
“Mommy.”
Ricardo’s eyes filled with tears.
He had heard his daughter’s voice countless times before.
But not like this.
Not since Claris died.
He pushed his chair back.
“Isa…”
The little girl immediately began crying.
Ricardo moved toward her.
But she pulled away.
“Mommy.”
He froze.
Then Luía appeared in the doorway.
She had heard the voice too.
She didn’t say anything.
She simply crouched beside Isabela.
The child looked at her.
For several seconds, they stared at each other.
Then Isabela reached out.
Luía opened her arms.
The little girl walked into them.
Ricardo watched.
He had spent thousands of reais on specialists.
He had hired therapists.
Doctors.
Nannies.
Consultants.
He had tried everything.
And now his daughter was holding onto a housekeeper she had known for only a few hours.
Luía didn’t look triumphant.
She simply held the child.
“You miss her,” she whispered.
Isabela nodded against her shoulder.
“Mommy.”
“I know.”
Ricardo turned away.
He couldn’t let his daughters see him cry.
But Mariana saw.
She always saw everything.
Later that night, Ricardo found Luía in the kitchen.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
She looked up.
“Do what?”
“Get involved.”
“I didn’t.”
“My daughter.”
“She needed someone to hold her.”
Ricardo stared at her.
“You have children?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know what to do?”
Luía smiled faintly.
“I don’t always.”
“Then what are you studying?”
She hesitated.
“Child psychology.”
Ricardo’s expression changed.
“You never mentioned that.”
“You didn’t ask.”
He sat down.
For the first time, they spoke without discussing cleaning.
Luía told him about her classes.
About her father.
About her mother.
About why she believed children behaved differently when they were hurting.
Ricardo listened.
Then he asked the question he had been afraid to ask.
“Do you think my daughters hate me?”
Luía looked at him.
“No.”
“Then why do they treat everyone like an enemy?”
“Because you’re the safest person to attack.”
He frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“They can’t fight cancer.”
“They can’t fight death.”
“They can’t fight the fact that their mother isn’t coming back.”
“So they fight whoever is still here.”
Ricardo looked down.
“And that’s me.”
Luía nodded.
“You’re still here.”
Those three words hurt more than any insult.
Ricardo looked toward the hallway.
“I don’t know how to be both parents.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I have six daughters.”
“I know.”
“They need a mother.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“They need their father.”
Ricardo laughed sadly.
“I’m not enough.”
“Maybe not alone.”
Silence filled the kitchen.
Then Luía said something that would stay with him.
“Mr. Mendoza, your daughters aren’t broken.”
Ricardo looked at her.
“They’re grieving.”
“And grief doesn’t disappear because the house is clean.”
That night, Ricardo couldn’t sleep.
At 2:17 in the morning, he walked past Laura’s bedroom.
He heard a faint sound.
Crying.
He opened the door.
Laura was sitting on the floor.
Her hands were tangled in her hair.
“Laura.”
She looked up.
“Dad.”
He knelt.
“Come here.”
She ran into his arms.
For the first time in months, Ricardo held his daughter without trying to solve anything.
He simply held her.
And for the first time, Laura didn’t pull away.
But the following morning, something happened that nearly destroyed the fragile peace.
A phone call came from the school.
Mariana had gotten into a fight.
