Roberto kicked the kitchen door open with such force that it slammed against the wall.
Part 2
Roberto kicked the kitchen door open with such force that it slammed against the wall.
“Elena!” he roared, his voice shaking with rage. “What the hell do you think you’re—”
The words died in his throat.
On the kitchen floor, spread over a soft colorful mat, was his son.
Pedrito was not in his wheelchair. He was lying on his stomach, propped up on his little elbows, face bright with joy. Elena knelt in front of him, holding both of his tiny hands, gently guiding his arms forward while humming a playful song. Every time Pedrito managed to pull himself a few centimeters, she cheered and made a silly face. The baby responded with that pure, explosive laughter Roberto had heard from the hallway—the kind of laughter he had not heard from his son in months.
There were no parties. No boyfriend on the phone. No neglect.
Only a young woman in a simple yellow blouse, her hair tied in a messy ponytail, patiently helping a disabled child discover the joy of movement.
Elena looked up, startled. The moment she saw Roberto’s furious face, the color drained from her cheeks.
“Señor Roberto… you’re supposed to be—”
“What are you doing to my son?” he demanded, though his voice had already lost half its strength.
Elena slowly released Pedrito’s hands and stood up, positioning herself protectively between the father and the child.
“I’m helping him,” she said quietly. “The doctors said the paralysis is irreversible. But they also said movement and stimulation can still help the muscles that still work. I’ve been doing gentle exercises with him every day… and he loves it.”
Roberto’s eyes moved from her face to his son. Pedrito was still on the mat, smiling, reaching one small hand toward Elena as if asking her to continue.
Something inside the millionaire’s chest cracked.