“Nephew? Wow… looks like genetics didn’t do its job.”

I felt a punch in my chest.

“What do you mean by that?”

He looked around and lowered his voice.

“Don’t play dumb, Laura. Everyone’s talking about it. The boy doesn’t look anything like Daniel.”

Daniel, my husband, was outside buying coffee. He didn’t hear a thing. I did.

I tried to respond, but Adrián kept talking, each word crueler than the last.

“You got married too fast. Maybe this is the result. A child born of… who knows what. It’s shameful. A disgrace to the family.”

My hands started trembling around Lucas. I wanted to scream, to defend myself, to explain that my son was loved, wanted, legitimate. But I couldn’t get a word out.

Adrián leaned closer and whispered,

“Daniel deserves better. Our family deserves better. And this”—he looked at the baby with contempt—“is proof that you never fit in.”

The air grew heavy, icy.

And then, a firm voice sounded behind him: