I didn’t drive through that gate like a chauffeur.
I drove through like the only adult who could no longer look away.
When the SUV stopped in front of the mansion, Mateo was still silently behind me. The black gates opened slowly. Two guards watched us go in, unsuspecting.
I gripped the steering wheel one last time and made my decision.
I wasn’t going to leave him alone that night.
I parked in front of the main entrance and turned to him.
“Mateo, listen to me. You’re not going up there alone.”
His eyes widened.
“She’s going to be mad.”
“Let her be mad.”
He shook his head, terrified.
“If she says I was bad, my dad will believe her.”
That’s what hurt me the most. Not the bruises. Not the marks. But the certainty with which that boy believed no one would ever choose him.
I got out of the car, walked around to the SUV, and opened the door for him. Mateo got out slowly. The moment his feet touched the floor, he winced in pain, confirming what I already knew.
This hadn’t happened just once.
It had been going on for some time.
We went inside together. The marble in the entryway gleamed under the enormous chandelier. Everything smelled of fresh flowers and furniture polish. The perfect house. The perfect family. The perfect lie.
Claudia, the housekeeper, was the first to see us. She was a woman in her sixties, her hair always pulled back in a tight bun, wearing an immaculate apron, and with a strange habit: she never raised her voice, yet she saw everything.
She looked at Mateo. Then she looked at me.
She didn’t ask silly questions.
“What happened?” she asked quietly.
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