You laugh too, and it feels strange how easy the air is suddenly. The café feels warmer. Your shoulders drop.
Something that has been clenched in you for months loosens without permission.
The girls keep talking, and you realize they are not interviewing you. They are welcoming you, which is a wild thing to feel from three five-year-olds.
Then Renata asks a question that lands quietly but hits hard.
“Do you have kids?” she asks.
The café noise fades for a second in your head. You feel the old ache rise, not dramatic, just familiar.
“No,” you say, and your smile dims.
Valentina tilts her head.
“Did you want them?” she asks, curiosity innocent and relentless.
This is not a normal first-date conversation, but nothing about tonight is normal.
You hesitate, then tell the truth in the simplest way.
You were engaged once. He left when he learned having kids might be difficult for you. The doctor said not impossible, but not likely.
You learned how fast some people run when love requires patience.
The girls listen like tiny elders, their faces solemn in a way that makes your chest hurt.
“That is sad,” Renata whispers.
“It was,” you admit, and you feel your eyes burning again, because some grief does not evaporate. It just changes shape.
Valentina pats your hand like she is comforting you the way she probably comforts her dad.
“Maybe you do not need to have kids,” she says thoughtfully.
Then she smiles, bright and bold.
“Maybe you just need to find some like us.”
You go very still, like your heart just tripped.
You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, the café door swings open hard enough to jingle the bell like an alarm.
A man rushes in, breathing like he ran the whole way.
His tie is crooked. His brown hair is messy. His eyes are frantic as they scan the room.
He looks like someone who knows he is about to lose something he has not even earned yet.
