The furniture was old but carefully maintained.
A patched quilt covered the sofa.
Children’s drawings decorated the refrigerator with mismatched magnets.
On one wall hung dozens of photographs.
Mateo’s first day at preschool.
Mateo feeding ducks at a pond.
Mateo carving pumpkins with Emma.
Every picture told the same story.
His son had grown up.
Without him.
Alessandro stopped before one photograph.
Mateo stood on a beach, laughing as waves chased his tiny feet.
He couldn’t remember hearing that laugh.
The realization hurt more than he expected.
« I never stopped talking about you, » Elena said softly behind him.
He turned.
« He didn’t forget you because I erased you. »
« He forgot because children can’t hold onto memories forever. »
She walked to a bookshelf and removed a small blue box.
Inside were dozens of letters.
All addressed the same way.
To Mateo’s Papa.
« I wrote one every month. »
