myriad earth tones marking Medellín’s city limits.
“I won’t forget, querida .”
“You sound so grim.”
Pipe sighed audibly. “I suppose I’m not ready for my princess to be old enough for school.”
Shifting, she smiled at him over the rim of her mug, taking in his scowling face. “We agreed that we couldn’t put it off any longer.” Her smile widened as she turned her attention to the dark-haired three-year-old on his lap who was happily chomping away at a buñuelo , oblivious to the adult conversation going on around her. “Weren’t you the one who said she would benefit from socialization?” Her tone was light, teasing.
“I’ve changed my mind.”
Ilda gave a genuine laugh at the gruff petulance in his voice as she spooned yogurt from the serving bowl into a small dish and placed it in front of the pair of them. The little girl in his lap glanced up at her and beamed before taking hold of the dainty child’s spoon Pipe offered her.
As always when she looked at her daughter, Ilda’s heart expanded nearly to the point of bursting, aching pressure pushing against the inside of her rib cage in an effort to escape. There was nothing like it in the world, this love for her child. It was consuming and radiant and petrifying, all at the same time, and Ilda would not trade the heady sensation for anything. Beautiful little Arlo Beatrìz was worth every moment of pain, physical and emotional, that had brought her into this world.
Arlo’s straight brown-black hair, so different than Ilda’s light mass of curls, was pulled back in a topknot she’d already managed to muss, her blunt-cut bangs framing a round face and drawing attention to big, alert eyes that took in every detail of their surroundings...except when she was focused on food, as she was right now on her yogurt.
Arlo was her mother’s daughter after all. Perhaps love of breakfast was a genetic trait.
This morning, Arlo had insisted on wearing turquoise rain galoshes—though no rain was in today’s forecast—with a taffy-pink shirt under short orange overalls, baring the twin bandages with purple paw prints decorating her knees. The girl was a speed demon, dashing around the property like a whirligig, and more often than not taking a spill on the courtyard cobblestones. Unlike other children Ilda had observed, however, Arlo never bothered to remain prone on the ground, crying. No, she hopped back up and continued to run, even if she was bleeding. The most recent set of knee scrapes came courtesy of a chase with Pipe’s aging terrier mutt, Cerdito.
Cerdito had won that game, but gifted Arlo with the consolation prize of his drooling tongue all over her grinning face.
Despite the eyesore that was Arlo’s color palette for the day, Ilda couldn’t look away, nor could she keep from smiling. “Her classes will only be for half a day,” she murmured reassuringly to the man who kept one stabilizing hand on Arlo’s waist.
Dark eyes met hers, wry self-directed humor alive in the brown depths. “But that is half a day when she won’t be here with us. You know I’m no good at letting go.”
A pang of compassion plucked at Ilda’s heartstrings, for all that those strings were twisted in a complicated knot when it came to this man. “Better than you think, Felipe.” Reaching out, she covered Pipe’s hand, the one resting near the bowl of yogurt in case breakfast got a little wild, squeezing gently. “So you’ll be at the meeting?” she prompted again.
He turned his hand beneath hers and briefly linked their fingers. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he said soberly, then bounced Arlo lightly in his lap to make her look up at him.
When she did, he plucked the spoon from her small fist, used a napkin to wipe away a blob of yogurt at the corner of her mouth and proceeded to brush the crumbs of an earlier muffin from the front of her overalls. Giggles erupted when Pipe tickled her ribs before she wriggled into a standing position atop his
“I won’t forget, querida .”
“You sound so grim.”
Pipe sighed audibly. “I suppose I’m not ready for my princess to be old enough for school.”
Shifting, she smiled at him over the rim of her mug, taking in his scowling face. “We agreed that we couldn’t put it off any longer.” Her smile widened as she turned her attention to the dark-haired three-year-old on his lap who was happily chomping away at a buñuelo , oblivious to the adult conversation going on around her. “Weren’t you the one who said she would benefit from socialization?” Her tone was light, teasing.
“I’ve changed my mind.”
Ilda gave a genuine laugh at the gruff petulance in his voice as she spooned yogurt from the serving bowl into a small dish and placed it in front of the pair of them. The little girl in his lap glanced up at her and beamed before taking hold of the dainty child’s spoon Pipe offered her.
As always when she looked at her daughter, Ilda’s heart expanded nearly to the point of bursting, aching pressure pushing against the inside of her rib cage in an effort to escape. There was nothing like it in the world, this love for her child. It was consuming and radiant and petrifying, all at the same time, and Ilda would not trade the heady sensation for anything. Beautiful little Arlo Beatrìz was worth every moment of pain, physical and emotional, that had brought her into this world.
Arlo’s straight brown-black hair, so different than Ilda’s light mass of curls, was pulled back in a topknot she’d already managed to muss, her blunt-cut bangs framing a round face and drawing attention to big, alert eyes that took in every detail of their surroundings...except when she was focused on food, as she was right now on her yogurt.
Arlo was her mother’s daughter after all. Perhaps love of breakfast was a genetic trait.
This morning, Arlo had insisted on wearing turquoise rain galoshes—though no rain was in today’s forecast—with a taffy-pink shirt under short orange overalls, baring the twin bandages with purple paw prints decorating her knees. The girl was a speed demon, dashing around the property like a whirligig, and more often than not taking a spill on the courtyard cobblestones. Unlike other children Ilda had observed, however, Arlo never bothered to remain prone on the ground, crying. No, she hopped back up and continued to run, even if she was bleeding. The most recent set of knee scrapes came courtesy of a chase with Pipe’s aging terrier mutt, Cerdito.
Cerdito had won that game, but gifted Arlo with the consolation prize of his drooling tongue all over her grinning face.
Despite the eyesore that was Arlo’s color palette for the day, Ilda couldn’t look away, nor could she keep from smiling. “Her classes will only be for half a day,” she murmured reassuringly to the man who kept one stabilizing hand on Arlo’s waist.
Dark eyes met hers, wry self-directed humor alive in the brown depths. “But that is half a day when she won’t be here with us. You know I’m no good at letting go.”
A pang of compassion plucked at Ilda’s heartstrings, for all that those strings were twisted in a complicated knot when it came to this man. “Better than you think, Felipe.” Reaching out, she covered Pipe’s hand, the one resting near the bowl of yogurt in case breakfast got a little wild, squeezing gently. “So you’ll be at the meeting?” she prompted again.
He turned his hand beneath hers and briefly linked their fingers. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he said soberly, then bounced Arlo lightly in his lap to make her look up at him.
When she did, he plucked the spoon from her small fist, used a napkin to wipe away a blob of yogurt at the corner of her mouth and proceeded to brush the crumbs of an earlier muffin from the front of her overalls. Giggles erupted when Pipe tickled her ribs before she wriggled into a standing position atop his
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