When our children returned to the hospital the next morning—pretending to be attentive, pretending to care—my bed was empty. The nurse simply said:

The nurse only said:

“The gentleman has already been transferred.”

Diego frowned.

“Transferred? Where?”

The nurse shrugged slightly.

“That’s confidential information.”

Graciela tried to smile, but her nervousness was obvious.

“We’re his children.”

“I know,” the nurse replied calmly. “But he specifically requested that his location not be disclosed.”

The two of them looked at each other.

For the first time, a trace of concern appeared on their faces.

Meanwhile, Lucía and I were more than three hours away.

An old friend of mine, Ernesto, had come to pick us up from the hospital before dawn. For years he had been my lawyer and one of the few men I trusted completely.

He drove us straight to his country house.

There, for the first time since I woke up from the coma, I could breathe in peace.

Lucía’s eyes were still swollen from crying.

“How could they do this?” she whispered. “They’re our children…”

I gently took her hand.

“Maybe we raised them giving them everything… except the chance to learn what it costs to earn it.”

That same day I called Ernesto to his office.

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