He couldn’t answer.
Gabriela lowered her gaze, hand resting instinctively over her belly, a practiced shield that hit him harder than any accusation. Without thinking, he dismounted and approached, each step heavier than the last.
“Gabriela,” he said.
She stopped, carefully setting down the firewood, hand still guarding her secret.
“Rodrigo,” she replied evenly. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I didn’t know,” he admitted. The words were useless immediately.
“I know,” she said simply.
“Is it mine?” he asked, though he already knew.
“Yes,” she said. “He is your son.”
Something inside him broke—quiet, complete, inevitable.
“I tried to find you,” she continued. “But you wouldn’t let me.”
He remembered Valetipa at the door, calm, saying it wasn’t the right time. “I should have insisted,” he whispered.
“No,” Gabriela said. “You made your choice. I made mine.”
Valetipa’s gaze sharpened as she arrived, assessing Gabriela, the pregnancy, the disruption.
“She’s pregnant,” Rodrigo said. “With my child.”
Silence.
“And what do you plan to do?” Valetipa asked.
Rodrigo hesitated. “I won’t pretend he doesn’t exist.”
Gabriela met his eyes. “I don’t want money. I don’t want guilt dressed as generosity.”
“I want to be there,” he said. “For my son.”
“Then learn to arrive without imposing. Learn to listen before deciding,” she replied, lifting her firewood. “If you want to meet him when he’s born, you know where I live.”
Valetipa left without another word. Rodrigo stayed, stripped of illusion, but lighter for the truth.
That night, he faced Valetipa’s plans: optics, settlements, control. He finally understood. “You want me to erase him,” he said quietly.
“I want to protect what we’re building,” she said.
He saw clearly for the first time. She didn’t love him. She loved the version she could control.
“I’m going back,” he said.
“If you do, our wedding is off,” she warned.
“Then it’s off,” he replied.
No flowers, no apologies. Just groceries. Just presence.
“This isn’t reconciliation,” Gabriela said. “This is responsibility.”
“I understand,” he said.
They spoke of schedules, boundaries, and consistency. Words weren’t enough—time would prove the truth.
When Mateo was born, small and furious at the world, Rodrigo held him and felt the weight of responsibility, not pride. Nights were sleepless, mistakes corrected quietly. Presence became routine.
Months later, Gabriela watched him carefully buckle Mateo into a car seat.
“You’re still here,” she said.
“I said I would be,” he replied.
Trust grew slowly, quietly, like roots beneath soil. One year later, Rodrigo watched Gabriela teach their son to plant a fragile seed.
“You don’t rush it,” she said. “You water it. Protect it. Let it grow.”
And Rodrigo finally understood what the road had always known: true growth doesn’t reach upward. It grows inward. It remains.