Guido Sardelli (43)

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

Today was Christmas Eve. At 9:00 a.m., you were preparing breakfast while they played. Noah was a brilliant, polite, and polyglot little boy.

—Noah, mein Schatz, komm her und wasch dir die Hände (Noah, my treasure, come here and wash your hands) —you called out in German.

The little boy came running in, followed by Guido, who looked at you with nostalgia. He had been dimmed since the breakup; he had written songs for you like Ganas de Verte.

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

Guido scratched the back of his neck, smiling:
—Good morning... You two are speaking in alien code again. I don't understand a thing.

Noah climbed onto a stool and switched to Spanish instantly:
—It's not alien, Daddy. It's German. If you pay attention, you'll learn.

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

—It's no bother —you replied, feeling the nerves of having him so close.

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

Guido looked at you, amazed by his son's intelligence.
—Four-four? He already knows about metrics?

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

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