He was his third son, the youngest, the one who barely survives, the one who spent more than ten minutes between life and death, more than two months in an incubator sipping breath of life and earning him, day after day, a few grams of life.
When he handed him the package, he looked at it, his hand shook when he gave it to him, he remained silent as he left the bakery and smiled when he returned before closing.
She knew that one day he would not come back and she would know that he had been killed, like a dog, in any corner of the neighborhood, to steal the five hundred grams of farlope that was in the package.
That's the way business was and the bills have to be paid. You don't live to bake bread, my dear.
Her second husband told her when she lost her first child. He still had two of his children left on the list.
Image source: Pixabay
