“I have Parkinson’s, daughter,” she said gently. “Some days, eating becomes a battle.”
Valeria felt her chest tighten. Not from shallow pity, but from memory. Her grandmother had faced the same struggle before she passed. She remembered those trembling hands attempting to hold a cup, the silent humiliation of needing help for something as simple as lifting food.
“Wait a moment,” she said. “I’ll bring you something easier.”
She hurried to the kitchen, requested a bowl of hot soup, and returned in less than four minutes. While other diners glanced at their watches or murmured about the delay, Valeria pulled up a chair and sat beside the woman as if time itself could pause — even though it couldn’t.
“Slowly,” she said with a soft smile. “There’s no rush.”
The woman let out a faint, grateful laugh.
“Thank you, daughter.”
“Are you alone?” Valeria asked as she gently guided the spoon. “Is someone coming to pick you up?”
The woman parted her lips to answer, but she never had the chance.
Across the room, near a column, a man observed the scene without looking away. He had arrived fifteen minutes earlier, ordered an espresso that now sat cold, untouched. His dark suit and understated watch did not advertise wealth; they carried it quietly.
His name was Alejandro Castañeda. He was forty-one years old and owned three industrial parks, a chain of boutique hotels, and several companies across the Bajío region. The local press described him as brilliant. His employees called him efficient. His rivals labeled him ruthless. No one — not even himself — would have described him as sentimental.
Until that moment.
His mother, Doña Mercedes Salgado, was smiling. Not the practiced smile she wore at galas or in photographs. A real one. Warm. Reaching her eyes. Alejandro had not seen that expression in years.
He stood still, arms crossed, as an unfamiliar discomfort stirred inside him.
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