It transported him back five years, to the hospital, to the promise he made to his dying wife that they would never lack love. And he, in his grief, had confused love with money. He had filled the house with toys, but had forgotten the smell of home.

Alejandro slowly looked up. He turned his head toward his mansion. And then he saw him. At the second-floor window, Valeria was watching the scene. She wasn’t rushing to help the injured children. She was standing there, a glass of wine in her hand, looking annoyed, like someone watching a boring television program. When she saw Alejandro looking at her, she simply closed the velvet curtains.

That simple act of closing the curtain on his children’s blood was the definitive proof. The blindfold fell from the millionaire’s eyes.

Alejandro looked at Clara, who was still on the ground, tearing strips of her own apron to bandage Mateo, unaware that she had hurt herself when she fell. He saw that woman’s hands: rough, hardworking, honest. Hands that had never stolen anything, only given.

“Forgive me…” Alejandro whispered, falling to his knees in front of her in the middle of the street, not caring about his expensive suit. “I was blind.”

She stood up with a newfound determination. There was no longer blind anger, but a cold, righteous mission. She took Clara’s old suitcase in one hand and extended the other toward her.

“Let’s go home,” she said firmly. “We have to heal the children. And then, I have to get the real garbage out of my house.”

The return to the mansion was not a defeat, it was a reconquest.