Chapter 84

NARRATOR

The return flight to Mexico was endless and silent. Mateo spent almost the entire journey staring out the window, his eyes empty and his heart crushed by a void he didn’t know how to fill. Mexico City appeared beneath him like a wounded organism that kept beating: endless lights, dense smog, constant noise, organized chaos. Nothing had changed—and yet, for him, everything was completely different.

When he stepped off the plane, the polluted air of the airport greeted him with its usual indifference. The black cassock beneath his coat gave him a solemn appearance, but his hands trembled almost imperceptibly.

He had gone days without sleeping well. The memory of Lucía chased him with every breath. Her honey-colored eyes, her broken voice, the scent of her skin that last night… everything blended in his mind with devastating guilt.

He had sworn to serve God with every fiber of his being, but in Sicily he had discovered the most deeply human things: unconditional love, forbidden desire, and a tenderness he had believed extinct within himself. Now he carried it all like an invisible cross tearing into his shoulders.

He tried to repeat to himself that he had done the right thing, that his place was there—in his parish, in the church where his parishioners awaited him. But not even the familiar sound of the bells when he reached the atrium of San Miguel Arcángel managed to ease him.

Father Agustín, his superior, greeted him with a broad smile.

“Father Mateo!” he exclaimed. “What a joy to have you back with us. We’ve all missed you.”

Mateo returned the smile, but it was weak, almost forced.

“Thank you, Father. It’s good to be home.”

But home sounded hollow, empty, like an echo in an abandoned room. Nothing truly felt like home anymore.

The following days passed in a cold, mechanical routine: morning mass, endless confessions, visits to the terminally ill. Outside, people greeted him with genuine affection, calling him the miracle of Chiapas, the priest who had survived so much and returned stronger. He only nodded, blessed them, pretended to be whole.

Because inside, he was slowly dying.

At night, when the temple was empty and sepulchrally silent, he went up to his office and sat before the carved wooden crucifix. In the desk drawer he kept a photograph of the twins that Lucía had given him before leaving, and the small silver cross he had taken with him to Sicily. Sometimes he held it in his trembling hands and prayed for them, for God’s impossible forgiveness.

And on other nights, he simply cried in silence.

One afternoon, while reviewing parish documents, Father Agustín knocked urgently on the door.

“Father Mateo, child protective services are looking for you. They say it’s about the boy you helped a few months ago.”

Mateo looked up sharply, disoriented.

“Little Diego?” he asked, feeling a chill run down his spine.

“Yes. They want to speak with you personally.”

The priest went down to the parish office. A young woman was there, her face tired, a manila folder in her hands. When she saw him, her expression shifted to a mixture of respect and deep sadness.

“Father Mateo, thank you for receiving me. I know you intervened in the case of the minor Diego Hernández, the boy who attended catechism.”

“Yes,” he replied tensely. “I went to his house before leaving for Italy. I tried to help, I spoke with the mother…”

She lowered her gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

“I deeply regret to inform you that Mrs. Hernández passed away two weeks ago.”

The air was violently knocked out of his body. He felt a brutal weight in his chest, as if he had been struck with a hammer.

“How…?”

“Domestic violence,” the woman replied in a barely audible voice. “Her husband attacked her with a kitchen knife. The neighbors called the police when they heard the screams, but when they arrived it was already too late. He is currently detained, facing homicide charges.”

Mateo clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. The image of that woman returned to his mind with brutal clarity: the bruised eyes, the palpable fear, the words she had spoken in a broken voice—I can’t report him, Father, he’s my son’s father.

And he, a coward, had respected her decision. He hadn’t insisted enough. He hadn’t done anything real.

“And the child?” he asked softly, his voice completely shattered.

“He’s physically fine. He was transferred to a group home; he has no other known immediate family. The social workers say he asks for you constantly.”

Silence flooded the office like icy water. Only the electric hum of the fluorescent lamp could be heard.

Mateo ran a hand over his face, feeling the weight of a new guilt.

“Give me the address,” he said finally, his voice firm.

The orphanage was on the outskirts of the city, an old building with peeling cream-colored walls and tall windows protected by bars. When he entered, the sharp smell of disinfectant hit him. An elderly nun guided him to the back courtyard where the children were playing.

Diego was alone, sitting on a rusty swing, staring at the concrete ground. He was barely eight years old. His hair was shorter than the last time, and he had the same sad, lost look.

When he saw him, he jumped up and ran toward him with his arms outstretched.

“Father Mateo!”

The priest knelt on the dirty ground and hugged him tightly. He felt the small body trembling uncontrollably.

“Why didn’t you help her?” Diego whispered through heartbreaking tears. “You said God would take care of her. You promised.”

Mateo’s heart shattered beyond repair. He held him tighter, unable to form any coherent words. What do you say to a child like that? How do you explain that sometimes God seems not to hear even the most desperate prayers?

“I tried, son,” he finally said, his voice completely choked. “I tried with everything I had, but it wasn’t enough. And I’m more sorry than I can express.”

The boy said nothing more. He simply rested his head on Mateo’s shoulder, clinging to him like a lifeline. And in that simple gesture, Mateo felt the crushing weight of his own failure.

That night he returned to the cathedral very late. He lit a candle before the high altar and remained on his knees for endless hours. The echo of the empty temple returned his ragged breathing to him.

He had come back hoping to find spiritual peace, but found only layers of accumulated guilt: the woman he did not save, the love he could not have, the daughters he could not publicly acknowledge. And amid all of it, a faith that stubbornly refused to die.

He crossed himself slowly and murmured in a broken voice:

“If this is my trial, Lord… don’t let me fail again. Give me the strength to be what they need.”

Silence was his only answer. Only the flame trembling in the darkness, as if it too were unsure.

Mateo rose on numb knees, walked toward the main door, and looked out at the city asleep beneath the pollution. The cold wind brushed his face, bringing with it an inevitable thought: Lucía and the girls are safe in Sicily. And as long as they are… I will keep bearing the weight of this forbidden love.

He closed the temple door and disappeared into the shadows of the stone corridor.

And in the orphanage, a child prayed for him, unaware that the man he called “father” was also learning—between devastating guilt and wavering faith—how to truly be one.