Faith. Roberto let out a disbelieving laugh. Faith doesn’t cure medical conditions, Elena. Science does. And science says my son can’t stand on his own. Then science is wrong, Elena declared. Or maybe science needs love to work. Do you think I was playing on the floor? What you saw, that human tower, that isometric exercise. Standing on my stomach, Santi has to adjust his balance every second because I breathe, because I move.
His brain was forced to connect with his muscles in a way no cold therapy machine could achieve. Roberto remained silent, processing the information. It made sense, it was logical, but it was too simple, too humble to be true. “Prove it,” Roberto challenged, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “If what he says is true, prove it now. Here.” Elena looked at Santi, who was now calm, his eyes closed, resting on her shoulder. Then she looked at Roberto.
She knew it was a risk. The boy was tired, stressed. If she failed, Roberto would have the perfect excuse to kick her out and humiliate her for life. But if she didn’t, Santi would return to a life of “you can’t,” condemned by a diagnosis on a piece of paper. “Let’s go to the living room,” Elena said, passing Roberto and walking back into the house. “And please, sir, if this works, don’t applaud, don’t shout, just watch.” The living room was just as they had left it, with toys scattered about and the echo of the previous argument still hanging in the air.
Nico, who had been left alone on the sofa crying softly, lifted his head when he saw Elena enter. He stretched out his arms, but Elena gave him a gentle, waiting gesture with her hand, a signal the boy understood instantly. Doña Gertrudis appeared in the side hallway, drawn by the unexpected return. Seeing Elena back in the living room, her face twisted into a grimace of indignation. “Sir, what is this woman still doing here?” the housekeeper snapped, striding forward.
“I thought we’d already cleared the house of silence, Gertrudis,” Roberto barked without looking at her, his eyes fixed on Elena and her son. The tone was so sharp that the old woman stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth agape, offended and surprised. Roberto stood by the doorframe with his arms crossed, a defensive posture that masked his terror. He wanted to believe, but he was terrified of being disappointed again. Elena walked to the center of the beige rug.
She knelt slowly, bringing herself down to Santi’s eye level. With infinite gentleness, she lifted the boy from her chest and stood him up on the rug. Her large, warm hands supported the little boy’s waist. Santi wobbled. His little legs, encased in his denim overalls, trembled visibly. He instinctively reached for Elena’s clothes, whimpering a little. “You’re holding him,” Roberto accused from the doorway, his voice heavy with skepticism. “If you let go, he’ll fall.”
It’s what always happens. “Shh,” Elena hissed without taking her eyes off the boy. “Look at me, look at me, my love. You’re strong, you’re a giant.” Elena removed her hands from the boy’s waist, but left them millimeters from his body, ready to catch him, creating an invisible force field of safety. Santi lay there swaying like a leaf in the wind. His knees buckled inward. “He’s going to fall,” Gertrudis whispered venomously.
“It’s cruel. I told him to be quiet!” Roberto roared, his heart pounding in his throat. Santi looked around, frightened by the empty space. His eyes searched for his father, but Roberto was a distant, blurry statue. Then they returned to Elena. She was there, smiling with that radiant smile that promised everything would be alright. She wasn’t looking at him with pity; she was looking at him with pride. Elena backed away slowly, one step, two steps, crawling on her knees backward, away from the boy.
“Come here, Santi!” she whispered, opening her arms wide. “Come here with the nanny, come here for a hug.” The distance was barely a meter, but for a child with hypotonia, it was an abyss. Santi let out a frustrated groan, looked at his feet, looked at Elena, and then it happened. Santi clenched his tiny fists at his sides. His face tightened in a gesture of absolute concentration. He took a deep breath, expanding his small chest, and lifted his right foot. It wasn’t an elegant movement; it was clumsy, heavy, a thud against the wooden floor that echoed in the deathly silence of the room.
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