I Thought I Knew My Son — Until His Secret Broke Me

My voice rose.

Mateo got scared.

She began to cry, a weak and muffled cry.

Elena turned towards him, her face filled with guilt.

“Look what you’re doing, Mr. Daniel. You’re scaring him.”

I felt like a monster.

But the anger was stronger than the guilt.

“I want to see the evidence, Elena. I want to see how Mateo does this. Now.”

She hesitated.

Then, with a determination I hadn’t known him for, he nodded.
“That’s fine. But not here.”

He took me to a small adjoining room.

It was a playroom that we rarely used.

There, on a table, was a small makeshift workshop.

Carving tools for children.

Half-finished wooden blocks.

And a notebook.

A worn, hard-cover notebook.

I opened it without asking permission.

It was a diary.

But it wasn’t Elena’s diary.

It was Mateo’s diary.

Full of drawings.

Scrawl.

And small, clumsy, but recognizable figures.

Birds.

Flowers.

Animals.

And below each drawing, a few words.

Written by Elena.

“Mateo made this bird today. He was happy.”

“Mateo showed me this drawing of a flower. He said ‘mom’ with his eyes.”