A young woman—clearly struggling from her worn clothes and tired shoes—was comforting his son like he belonged to her. She stood in the freezing rain, holding a baby, giving away the only protection she had… to a stranger.
To his son.
Something twisted painfully in Daniel’s chest.
“Here,” Marisol said, digging through her bag. “I’ve got a couple of tamales left. They’re cold, but they’ll help. Are you hungry?”
Ethan hesitated, then nodded.
He took the food with trembling hands and took a bite, lowering his eyes as if he didn’t want her to see his reaction.
“It’s really good,” he said quietly.
Then, after a pause too heavy for a child, he added, “My mom never cooked for me.”
The words hit her hard.
He had expensive clothes, polished shoes—everything people imagine when they think of a perfect life.
And yet, the sadness in his voice…
That didn’t come from hunger.
It came from something deeper.
Marisol gently wiped his face with her sleeve.
“Sometimes people forget how to love properly,” she said softly. “But it doesn’t mean they don’t love you.”
Inside the car, Daniel closed his eyes for a brief second.
Guilt flooded him.
When was the last time he held his son like that?