A birthmark.
The same birthmark Alejandro had.
Inherited through generations.
Alejandro staggered back.
“Look at me,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Tell me the truth.”
The boy spoke first.
“You look like the picture,” he said innocently.
“What picture?” Alejandro whispered.
“The one Mami Elena shows us before bed,” the boy smiled.
“She says you’re busy… but that you love us.”
Then came the question that shattered the world.
“Are you my daddy?”
Elena broke.
“Yes,” she sobbed.
“They’re your sons. The ones they told you died at birth.”
Alejandro collapsed.
Five years ago, he had buried four empty coffins.
Now his sons were standing in front of him.
Alive.
Starving.
Hidden.
And the truth came crashing down like a freight train.
When his mother arrived moments later—terrified instead of surprised—everything became clear.
She had paid doctors.
Forged death certificates.
Sent the babies away to disappear.
To protect the family name.
Alejandro expelled her from his life that day.
