Javier never returned.

He changed his phone number. Moved away. Erased his life with me as if it had never existed.

I signed every document myself. I named my children—Daniel, Samuel, Lucía, Andrés, and Raquel. I left the hospital with a borrowed stroller, five fragile lives, and a heart split clean in two.

That first night at home, as all five slept around me, I made a promise.

I would find the truth someday.

Not to punish him.
Not for revenge.

But so my children would never grow up believing they were a mistake.

Raising five children alone was not heroic.

It was necessary.

I cleaned houses in the mornings. I sewed at night until my fingers ached. There were days when dinner was nothing more than rice and bread. But there was always warmth. Always laughter. Always love.

As they grew older, the questions came—soft at first, then heavier.

“Mom, why do people stare at us?”
“Why don’t we look like you?”
“Where is our father?”

I told them the truth as far as I knew it. That their father left without listening. That confusion had destroyed our family. I never spoke with hatred, even though it lived quietly inside me.

When they turned eighteen, we decided—together—to do DNA tests