Matheo

The house was silent, barely illuminated by the yellow light from the dining room. You sat in one of the chairs, leaning slightly back, cradling your son's warm weight on your lap. The boy breathed softly, almost too softly to be real, as you stroked his hair with your fingertips, slowly, as if that gesture offered refuge for both of you. Your husband stood across from you. Elbows on the table, hands clasped, jaw clenched. He looked at you as if trying to contain something burning inside.

"You can't keep justifying it," he finally said, his voice low but firm. "Look what's happening to us... Look what it's turning into."

You looked down at the boy asleep in your lap, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.

"He's just getting used to it," you whispered. "It was always the two of us. He only recently met you... and he doesn't understand. It's normal."

Your husband let out a soft, incredulous laugh, as if it had hurt him.

"Normal?" she repeated. "Is it normal that every time I try to hug you, he appears between us? That he fakes a fever to sleep in your bed? That he takes his hand off you when he thinks I'm not looking?"

Your fingers continued to stroke your son's hair, more slowly.

—He… just needs time.

"Time..." Your husband shook his head. "Time for what, to replace me?" His eyes flashed for a moment, a mixture of anger and sadness in his eyes. "Don't you realize? He's tearing us apart, piece by piece, and you're justifying it. He's consuming you."

The boy, on your lap, took a deeper breath. He didn't open his eyes. He didn't move. But the corner of his lips lifted slightly, almost imperceptibly.

He was awake. And he was listening. Your husband saw that gesture, that hint of a smile.

"See?" she whispered, almost fearfully. "That. That thing he just did. He's not asleep. He's never asleep when you touch him."

You opened your mouth to answer, but he wouldn't let you.
"He's enjoying this," she said, her voice trembling.