housekeeper in her neatly pressed blue-and-white uniform—was not cleaning or arranging flowers. She was seated at the forbidden table, patiently feeding four identical boys, no more than four years old, dressed in worn, mismatched clothes clearly patched together over time. Their gazes followed each spoonful as if it were treasure. The meal was nothing extravagant—just simple rice tinted yellow—yet they looked at it as though it were pure gold. “Elbows down, my little ones,” Elena whispered kindly. Then, with a smile meant to reassure more than instruct, “Eat slowly. Today, everyone gets enough.” Bright yellow rubber gloves covered her hands—hands meant for scrubbing floors and sinks—but the way she held the spoon was gentle, practiced, almost motherly. Alejandro’s throat tightened. He had never seen tenderness like this in his own home. NEXT PART IN 1ST COMMENT Voir moins

Alejandro demanded, “Whose children are they? Are they yours?”
Elena tried a weak lie—“My nephews.”

Alejandro’s eyes flicked to the boys’ shirts. One wore a fabric pattern Alejandro recognized from clothing he’d thrown away.
He said coldly, “Why are they dressed in my old clothes?”

THE BIRTHMARK
Alejandro reached for the bravest boy’s arm. Elena warned, low and sharp: “Don’t touch them.”
But Alejandro ignored her.

And then he saw it: a birthmark on the child’s forearm—exactly where Alejandro had his own. A mark passed down in his family line.

His knees nearly gave out. He searched the other boys’ faces, their features, their expressions. The truth pressed in like a wall.

Alejandro whispered, voice rough: “Look at me, Elena. Tell me the truth.”

One of the boys pointed at Alejandro with innocent certainty:
“You look like the photo.”

Alejandro went still. “What photo?”

The boy answered brightly, unaware of the earthquake he’d caused:
“The photo Elena shows us before we sleep. She says you’re good… just busy.”

Then the child asked the question that broke the room:
“Are you my dad?”

“YES. THEY’RE YOUR CHILDREN.”
Elena’s face collapsed into tears. She nodded slowly.
“Yes, sir,” she whispered. “They’re your children… all four.”

Alejandro staggered back, denial flaring into fury and grief.
“That’s impossible,” he choked out. “I buried them. I have death certificates. I have graves.”

Elena’s voice shook: “I’m telling you what’s real.”

Then she pulled a worn locket from beneath her uniform.
“If you don’t believe me… believe this.”

Alejandro recognized it instantly—it was Lucía’s. A unique piece from Italy. Inside was a tiny photo of him and Lucía, smiling. On the other side, engraved:
“For my four miracles.”

Alejandro’s legs finally gave. He dropped to his knees in his expensive suit, staring at the boys like he was seeing life return to a place he’d buried.

WHERE ELENA FOUND THEM
Alejandro forced the words out: “How?”

Elena told him the truth. Six months earlier, after work, she’d heard crying near dumpsters behind a restaurant. She found the four boys huddled together, weak and starving. She spent her entire week’s pay on a taxi and brought them to her small servant room inside the mansion—because she didn’t believe they would survive another night outside.

She admitted she’d fed them what she could afford—cheap rice colored yellow to make it feel “special.”
“If it looks like gold,” she said softly, “it gives them hope.”

Alejandro stared at the bowls like they were a confession carved into porcelain. This “poor” meal had kept his children alive.

A small voice piped up—one boy pushing his plate toward Alejandro:
“Sir… do you want some? Elena puts magic powder. It’s good.”

And Alejandro—who had everything—ate from his child’s plate with shaking hands.

THE REAL VILLAIN WALKS IN
The moment of fragile peace shattered with the roar of a car outside. Heels clicked fast on marble. Elena turned pale. The boys stiffened.

One whispered, trembling: “It’s her.”

A sharp voice rang from the hallway: “Alejandro!”

Doña Bernarda—Alejandro’s mother—appeared in designer clothes and jewels. She stopped when she saw the scene: Elena, the yellow rice, Alejandro with a spoon, and four identical boys.

Her face didn’t show surprise.
It showed guilt and terror.

She stammered, “No… it can’t be… I made sure…”

Alejandro’s voice turned lethal-calm:
“You made sure of what, Mother?”

THE TRUTH AND THE WAR
In that moment, Alejandro understood: the “deaths,” the closed coffins, the paperwork—Bernarda had controlled everything.

He confronted her, and her mask cracked. She tried to claim Elena was a criminal and the boys were “nobody,” but her own fear betrayed her.

The situation spiraled into chaos—shouting, threats, panic—until security removed Bernarda from the house. Alejandro ordered, “Get her out.”

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