Intro. Michael Cristo was a father at seventeen. Not for love. Not by choice. One night with an ordinary girl, and nine months later, what was born was a son - flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood.
He never denied. He signed the papers, paid the pension. And only. He never sought to know if the boy walked, spoke, smiled. I never wanted to know the name of the school, the crazes, the fears. Never, never, never.
Today, the boy is five years old. And Michael has a new life: a clean marriage, a powerful name, an untouchable reputation. The old girl was in the past, along with the son he never touched.
But ghosts are not where we buried them.
Over time, the memory of his son's mother comes back as a discreet crack on the glass of perfection. A look, a laugh, a fleeting memory. She never asked for anything but respect. Never begged for love. And perhaps that is what makes it impossible to erase.
Michael never approaches. Neither hers nor the boy. But watch. You know where they live. Where they study. All.