A small clatter carried through the hallway.
Metal tapping ceramic.
A stool scraping the kitchen floor.
The soft rhythm of a child talking to himself.
The sound stopped me cold.
I knew that voice.
My hand slipped from the bathroom doorframe as I stepped into the hall, moving slowly, afraid the moment would vanish if I approached too fast. The apartment felt smaller than I remembered—tight walls, narrow passage, the faint scent of rice soaking in the kitchen sink.
Another clatter.
A small grunt of effort.
A tiny hum under his breath.
I reached the doorway.
Joaquin stood on a wooden stool in front of the stove, sleeves pushed up past his elbows. The pan in front of him sizzled weakly. He held the spatula with both hands, steady and focused in a way no eight-year-old should be.
His movements were practiced.
Efficient.
Too familiar with the morning routine.
My chest tightened.
From the bedroom, a sharp cry rose—a young, panicked wail that cut straight through the quiet.
"Kua! Kua!"
Lissette's voice.
Calling for her brother because she didn't expect me to answer.
Joaquin let out a small sigh that sounded far older than he was.
"I'm coming, Lissette. Just wait."
My strength drained in an instant.
My knees buckled, and I caught the doorframe to steady myself. A rough sob tore free before I could stop it.
His head whipped around.
"Mom?"
He stared at me with wide eyes, worry already creeping into his expression. "Are you okay?"
Eight years old, and he was trained to check on me first.
Something inside me cracked.
I crossed the kitchen in a few steps and dropped to my knees in front of him. My arms wrapped around his small body. He tensed at the sudden grip and let out a startled puff of air.
"Mom?"
His voice was uncertain.
Afraid he had done something wrong.
"I'm here," I managed. "I'm here, Joaquin."
He tried to lean back to look at me, but I held him closer, my face pressed to his shoulder. He smelled like laundry detergent and yesterday's school uniform.
"What's wrong? Did something happen? Are you sick?"
His questions tumbled out, his hands hovering near my shoulders as if unsure whether to comfort me or pull away.
I loosened my hold and looked at him. His hair stuck up in uneven tufts. A faint smudge of egg yolk stained his shirt.
He was so small.
So young.
And already carrying responsibilities that belonged to me.
"I'm sorry," I whispered into his hair. "I'm so, so sorry."
He stiffened. Confused.
He didn't understand. He hadn't lived the years that broke him.
Lissette cried louder from the bedroom, her voice rising with desperation.
Joaquin turned his head toward the sound.
"I'll get her—"
"No."
I wiped my face quickly and forced my legs to steady under me. "I'll get your sister. You don't have to do it."
The words felt heavy.
How many mornings in the first life had begun with him climbing out of bed before dawn because I wasn't there?
I didn't wait for his answer. I moved down the hallway, each step taking me further back in time than I ever believed possible.
The bedroom door was half open.
The crib stood in the corner, just as it had twenty years ago.
Lissette was standing inside it, hands gripping the rail, cheeks flushed from crying. Her hair stuck to her forehead. When she saw me, her eyes widened.
"Mama!"
The word hit harder than the crash ever did.
I lifted her from the crib, her small arms wrapping around my neck immediately. She weighed almost nothing. Warm, soft, trusting.
I held her close, breathing in the faint mix of baby shampoo and milk. Her heartbeat pressed against my chest, quick and steady.
Tears blurred my vision again.
She leaned back and touched my cheek with a tiny hand.
"Mama sad?"
Her face was earnest, puzzled, concerned in the only way a two-year-old could be.
In the other life, she woke up to empty rooms.
She learned early that comfort came from her brother, not her mother.
She learned to stop asking for me.
I kissed her hair.
"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm right here."
Her little fingers curled into my shirt, and she rested her head against me.
Behind us, Joaquin stood in the doorway, watching quietly, unsure if he should speak.
The weight of two lifetimes pressed around me, but for the first time in years, there was something under it—a beginning.
A second chance waited in the hallway between them.
And it was mine to take.