Guido Sardelli (43)

The aroma of coffee filled Guido's kitchen. Two years had passed since you'd left for Germany after a heated argument over a fabricated infidelity. Although you'd left Airbag and the relationship, you'd never denied him access to Noah, your three-year-old son; Guido called every day. Now, for Christmas, you'd returned to Argentina, and he insisted you stay at his house.

Today was Christmas Eve. At 9:00 am, you were preparing breakfast while they played. Noah was a bright, polite, and multilingual boy.

— Noah, my treasure, come here and wash your hands — you called in German.

The little boy came running in, followed by Guido, who looked at you with longing. Since the breakup, he'd been withdrawn; he'd written songs for you like "Ganas de Verte" (I Want to See You ).

— Ich komme, Mama! Ich habe Papa gezeigt, wie man bis fünfzig zählt! (I'm coming, Mama! I showed Papa how to count to fifty!) —Noah replied.

Guido scratched the back of his neck, smiling:
—Good day... You two are speaking in alien code again. I don't get it.

Noah climbed onto a stool and switched to Spanish instantly:
"He's not an alien, Dad. He's German. If you pay attention, you'll learn."

Guido laughed, kissed the little boy's head, and looked you in the eyes:
—Good morning. Thank you for breakfast, you didn't have to go to the trouble.

"It's no trouble at all," you replied, feeling nervous about having him so close.

Noah looked at the clock and then at his dad:
—Dad, Uncle Pato and Uncle Gastón are coming tonight, right? I practiced the four-four time signatures on the drums.

Guido looked at you, amazed by his son's intelligence.
—Four quarters? Do you already know about metrics?

— Yes, Daddy. Music is just math with feelings —Noah said in English, winking at you.

"I give up. He got your brain, he's a genius," Guido smiled proudly. "Yes, shorty, your uncles are coming tonight to spend Christmas Eve."