Eduardo stepped back, shaking.
“Pedro, we’re leaving,” he said, but his voice trembled.
“What’s your name?” Pedro asked, ignoring his father.
“Miguel,” the boy replied, sitting up.
The movement woke the other child, darker-skinned with black hair, who stared at Eduardo with fear and curiosity.
Now there was no doubt.
These were his children.
“How old are you?” Eduardo asked, barely breathing.
“Five,” Miguel said. “Both of us. We’re twins.”
Five years old. The same age as Pedro.
“Where is your mom?” Eduardo asked.
“She died two months ago,” the other boy said calmly.
“What was her name?” Eduardo whispered.
“Lucía Mendoza.”
The name froze him.
Lucía. His former secretary. The woman he had betrayed his wife with six years earlier.
Three nights. Only three.
And from those nights came twins.
His twins.
Abandoned on the street.
“Dad, why are you crying?” Pedro asked, pulling his sleeve.
Eduardo hadn’t noticed the tears.
“Did your mom ever talk about your father?” he asked.
Miguel nodded. “She said he was rich. That we looked like him. That he had another son.”
“She said he would never come for us,” the other boy added. “That we didn’t exist to him.”
Each word cut deep.
“What’s your name?” Eduardo asked softly.