Chapter 9 - THE MALASAÑA SUNRISEThe morning sun poured through the large wooden windows of the Malasaña apartment, painting the hardwood floors in warm, golden hues.
The nursery was small compared to the echoing halls of the Vallecas estate, but it was filled with things chosen with love: a crib painted a soft, calming mint green, a shelf stacked with fairy tales in Spanish and English, and a mobile of paper stars spinning gently in the morning breeze.
I stood by the window, resting both hands on my swollen belly, feeling a strong, rhythmic kick that made me smile through tears of profound gratitude.
Today was my due date.
The doorbell chimed softly—a gentle, melodious chime, not the violent buzzing of bill collectors or desperate husbands.
I walked slowly down the hallway and opened the door.
Pedro stood there holding a small bouquet of fresh lavender and a brown paper bag smelling warm and delicious of fresh pastries from the neighborhood bakery.
“Good morning, Mama,” Pedro grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine warmth. “How are we feeling today? Any royal decrees or midnight cravings?”
“Just a stubborn little human who seems determined to wait for the weekend,” I laughed, stepping aside to let him in. “Thank you for coming by, Pedro. You don't have to check on me every single day, you know.”
“Nonsense,” Pedro said, placing the pastries on the kitchen counter and setting the lavender in a glass vase. “Someone has to make sure you’re eating properly and not trying to paint the nursery ceiling by yourself at nine months pregnant.”
We sat at the small wooden kitchen table, the spring breeze drifting in through the open balcony doors, carrying the lively, comforting sounds of Madrid waking up: distant chatter from the street market, the clatter of ceramic cups at the corner cafe, the distant laughter of children playing in the plaza.
My phone rested quietly on the table. Face down.
No frantic texts. No threatening voicemails. No lawyers demanding settlements.
Just absolute, hard-won peace.
“You know,” Pedro said softly, stirring his coffee, “I saw Luis yesterday outside the metro station in Tribunal.”
I paused, my coffee cup halfway to my lips. I didn't feel a spike of fear or anger—only a quiet curiosity. “How did he look?”
“Older,” Pedro said carefully. “He was carrying a briefcase, looking like he was heading to some entry-level administrative desk job. He saw me standing across the street. He didn't try to cross over. He just nodded, looked down at the pavement, and kept walking.”
I looked out the window toward the bright, open sky over the terracotta rooftops of Madrid.
“Good,” I whispered. “For both of our sakes.”
Suddenly, a sharp, familiar wave of tightness gripped my lower abdomen. I froze, taking a slow, deep breath as the sensation rippled outward, warm and unmistakable.
Pedro dropped his spoon against his saucer, his eyes widening as he looked at my face.
“Elena? Was that...?”
May you like
I let out a breathless, joyful laugh, gripping the edge of the wooden table as another contraction rolled through me—not a pain of fear or trauma, but the ancient, powerful rhythm of new life demanding to enter the world.
“Pedro,” I said, looking at him with shining eyes. “Call Dr. Alvarez. It’s time.”
