His Italian shoes crunched on the street trash as he approached. The little girl stared at him in terr0r, clutching the two babies to her malnourished chest.
“Hello, little one, are you okay?” Mateo asked, crouching down to her level, staining his immaculate suit.
The little girl, her eyes wide and filled with tears, assessed him for five seconds. Her voice was hoarse from dehydration.
“I haven’t eaten since yesterday. They’re hungry,” she whispered, gesturing to the babies. “They’re three months old. My parents went to heaven two weeks ago.”
Mateo felt a lump in his throat that made it hard to breathe. He had never held a baby, never known such misery up close. His life in his Polanco penthouse was perfect and sterile.
“What’s your name?” he managed to say.
“Sofía. And these are Diego and Santi.”
It was then that Sofia asked the question that would shatter Mateo’s world. She held out her thin arms, offering him one of the little ones who was crying for milk.
“Sir… would you take one of us? I don’t want them to d1e. I swear I’m good.”
Mateo didn’t go to his business meeting. He took the three children and put them in his car. He drove them to his apartment, a cold, minimalist place that suddenly became full of life and chaos. Sofia devoured three bowls of hot soup while Mateo clumsily tried to prepare bottles following the instructions the eight-year-old girl was giving him.
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