When he opened the door, he found a woman around thirty, dark hair tied back, wearing simple jeans and a white blouse, a worn canvas backpack over her shoulder.

“Good morning. I’m Lucía Herrera.”

“You’re early.”

“The bus came sooner than expected. I preferred waiting here.”

Honest.

Inside, Sebastián reviewed her references — solid experience, good recommendations.

“Why did you leave your last position?”

“The family relocated to Chicago. They offered for me to go with them, but my mother is ill. I need to stay.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Heart failure,” she answered calmly.

He nodded.

“My son lost his mother eight months ago. He’s quiet.”

Lucía’s eyes softened.

“Understood.”

He handed her a printed list.

“Strict schedule. Limited television. No tablets. Structured activities. Professional boundaries. He’s your responsibility — not your friend.”

She read carefully.

“May I ask something?” she said.

“Yes.”

“If he needs comfort… may I hug him?”

The question unsettled him.

“I suppose.”

“Children sometimes need affection without a reason,” she said gently.

“Remember,” Sebastián replied coldly, “you’re not here to replace his mother.”

“I’m not here to replace anyone,” Lucía said evenly. “I’m here to care for a child who’s hurting.”

Her confidence irritated him — and intrigued him.

“You start now.”

After leaving for work, Sebastián couldn’t shake the feeling that Lucía was different. She didn’t seem intimidated. She didn’t seem desperate.

And that made him uneasy.

On the way to the office, he called a security company.

“I need discreet cameras installed throughout my home.”

By that evening, tiny lenses were hidden in smoke detectors, clocks, ceiling corners. Full coverage. Live access. Audio included.

Control.

Or so he told himself.

The next morning, he opened the app.

At 8:15, Lucía entered Mateo’s room.

“Good morning, Mateo.”

“My mom used to make eggs with cheese,” Mateo murmured at breakfast.

Instead of dismissing it, Lucía smiled.

“Then you’ll have to teach me how she made them.”

For the first time in months, Sebastián saw his son smile.

Later, through the audio feed, he heard Mateo whisper:

“I miss my mom every day.”

“It’s okay to miss her,” Lucía replied softly. “Being strong doesn’t mean pretending you don’t hurt.”

“Can I hug you?”

“Yes.”

Sebastián had to close the app. His hands were shaking.

This wasn’t manipulation.

It was something real.