Seven years.
Seven years without anyone daring to sit beside him.
Seven years without anyone stating the truth so plainly:
He had been existing—
not living.
Only a child had been brave enough to say it.
Mateo raised his hand gently. “It’s alright, Ana,” he said, finding her voice. “She can stay.”
Ana froze. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure,” he said quietly. “No one should eat alone. Right, Lily?”
Lily beamed so brightly he could almost feel it.
“Do you like potatoes?” Mateo asked.
“I like fries,” she replied honestly. “These are too squishy.”
For the first time in years, the corner of his mouth lifted.
Not quite a smile.
But close.
“Samuel,” Mateo called, “could you bring fries for our guest? And orange juice.”
Lily clapped.
Ana pressed a hand to her mouth, overwhelmed.
The rest of dinner dissolved into questions only a toddler could ask:
“Why don’t your eyes move?”
“Why don’t you look at me?”
“Why do you wear sunglasses inside?”
Mateo answered without hesitation. “Because I can’t see anything, Lily.”
She was quiet for two seconds.
Then she slid down from her chair, stepped closer, and gently cupped his face in her tiny hands.
“Then I’ll see for you,” she said.
