Three weeks earlier, she had walked out of the hospital in San Jacinto de la Sierra with empty arms and milk that refused to dry. The doctors had used gentle voices. Complications. No heartbeat. These things happen.
But her body didn’t care about medical language.
It kept producing milk.
And across town, a newborn was starving.
The door opened slowly.
Mateo Alvarez stood there, unshaven, hollow-eyed, a baby crying somewhere behind him like a siren that wouldn’t shut off.
“Natalia?” he asked, confused. “Is everything okay?”
She swallowed. “No,” she said honestly. “But… I heard Sofía won’t take formula.”
Mateo’s jaw tightened. “I’ve tried everything. She won’t keep it down.”
The baby’s cry sharpened.
Natalia felt it in her bones.
“I have milk,” she whispered.
The words hung between them.
Mateo froze.
“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “I can’t ask you to—”
“You didn’t,” she cut in. “I’m offering.”
Another wail from inside.
He stepped aside.
The house still smelled like funeral flowers.
A framed photo of Mateo’s late wife, Isabella Alvarez, sat on the mantel, smiling at a world she no longer belonged to.
Natalia sat on the couch. Her hands shook as she unbuttoned her blouse.
When Sofía latched, it wasn’t gentle.
It was desperate.
Pain shot through her, sharp enough to steal her breath. Then came the rush—warm, overwhelming relief.
Her eyes filled.
In her mind, she heard the ghost of her son’s cry.
Across the room, Mateo turned toward the window, shoulders rigid.
“I’m sorry,” Natalia whispered.
“For what?” he asked hoarsely.
“For… all of this.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “Just… don’t stop.”
Sofía’s swallowing slowed. Her tiny fingers gripped Natalia’s shirt like she was afraid she’d disappear.
For the first time since Isabella’s funeral, the house felt quiet.
Peaceful.
“She hasn’t slept like that,” Mateo said softly, “since the burial.”
Natalia looked down at the milk-drunk baby.
“She was hungry,” she said.
Mateo let out a broken laugh. “So was I.”
Word traveled fast in a small town.
By the third week, people had noticed Natalia walking to Mateo’s house every morning.
“She lost her baby,” someone whispered near the bakery. “Now she’s taking someone else’s husband.”
“She’s feeding his child,” another voice said, sharp with judgment. “That’s not proper.”
Natalia kept walking.
Boots steady.
Head high.
But gossip wasn’t the only thing waiting for her.
One evening, her ex, Ricardo Salas, appeared at her door.