Nando stops, confused.
You stare at the children through the bars of the gate, and your mind starts counting risks like it always does.
Then it starts counting something else, quieter: what kind of man refuses two kids asking to work for leftovers?
You clear your throat. “How old are you?” you ask the boy.
“Ten,” he answers immediately. “I’m Pedro. She’s Ana Clara. She’s seven.”
Ana Clara peeks out from behind him, eyes too big for her face, cheeks pale, hair tied with a fraying ribbon.
“And your sister?” you ask.
“Mariana,” Pedro says. “Eighteen. She’s sick.”
He hesitates, then adds, “We didn’t want to leave her alone, but… she told us to try.”
The word try lands like a bruise.
You can hear the desperation tucked inside it, like a note folded into a pocket.
You glance back at your mansion, at the silent windows, at the kitchen full of food you barely touch, and you feel a sudden, ugly clarity.
You turn to Nando. “Open the gate,” you say.
Nando’s eyebrows jump. “Sir—”
“Open,” you repeat, and now your voice is steel again.
The gate clicks and swings inward, slow and heavy, like your life making room for the first time in years.
Pedro steps in carefully, as if the gravel might explode.
Ana Clara follows, gripping his shirt.
They stop a few steps from you, like they don’t trust themselves to get closer.
You notice the way they keep looking past you, scanning for exits, expecting to be chased at any moment.
“You’re going to clean the garden,” you say.
“And you’re going to do it under supervision. You don’t go near the house. You don’t touch anything except weeds and tools.”
Pedro nods so fast it’s almost painful. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
You pause.
You hate how “sir” sounds in his mouth, like he’s rehearsed obedience to survive.
You hate even more that you’ve benefited from a world that teaches kids to bow.
“You’ll get food when you’re done,” you add.
Then you hear yourself and correct it, because control isn’t always virtue.
“You’ll get food now,” you say, and you surprise yourself again.
Nando looks at you like you’ve grown a second head.
You ignore him and gesture toward the side entrance.
“Come,” you say, keeping it brisk, as if kindness needs to wear a uniform to be allowed inside you.
In the kitchen, the smell of bread and coffee hits the air like a warm slap.
Ana Clara’s eyes lock onto the fruit bowl as if it’s a mirage.
Pedro stands rigid, hands behind his back, trying not to stare.
You open the fridge and pull out leftovers you never thought of as luxury until now.
Chicken. Rice. Soup. A loaf of bread still sealed.
You pack it into a paper bag, then add water bottles and a small box of cookies you didn’t even remember buying.
Pedro’s throat moves when he swallows.
He doesn’t reach. He doesn’t beg.
He just whispers, “For Mariana?”
You nod. “For Mariana,” you say, and you hand him the bag.
His fingers shake when they close around it, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear.
Ana Clara blurts, “She’s really sick.”
Her voice cracks on really, and the word cuts through you sharper than any insult ever has.
You look at her, and you realize she’s not asking for sympathy. She’s asking if you can handle the truth.
“How sick?” you ask, quiet.
