“The Little Sisters Asked Me to Adopt Them”

I still remember the smell of cheap detergent and freshly baked bread at San José Orphanage. I had gone that Tuesday because my company needed photos for their Christmas campaign. Just that. Snap a few pictures of smiling kids, shake hands with the director, and return to my life.

But then I saw them.

Lucía was seven, holding her sister Sofía’s hand as if it were the only real thing in the world. Sofía was barely five, with huge eyes that seemed to swallow all the sadness in the universe. They were sitting in a corner of the playground, away from the noise of the other children.

“Don’t you want to play?” I asked, adjusting my camera.

Lucía shook her head, but Sofía looked at me with a gaze so intense I lowered my lens.

“Do you live in a house?” the little girl asked.

“Yes, I live in an apartment.”

“With your family?”

I swallowed hard.

“Just… just me.”

I don’t know why I told them the truth. Maybe because their eyes didn’t judge. They just observed.

For the next three months, I returned every week. At first, I told myself it was to finish the photoshoot, then to bring books, then just to stop by. Lies. I came because Lucía waited for me by the window and Sofía had started calling me “Mr. Mateo” with a smile that lit up the entire room.

“Can you draw dragons?” Sofía asked one afternoon, sitting on my lap while Lucía watched from her chair, serious as always.

“Not very well.”

“That’s okay. My mom couldn’t either, but she still drew me one every night.”

My throat tightened.

“Do you remember her a lot?”

Sofía nodded.

“Lucía says we mustn’t forget her. Mom told us to always stay together, no matter what.”

Lucía came closer, her seriousness almost unnatural for a child.

“Last month, they tried to separate us,” she said firmly. “One family wanted to adopt Sofi because she’s smaller. The director said we were lucky—not to be selfish.”

“And what happened?”

“I bit the man’s hand when he tried to take her,” she said without shame. “They let us stay together.”

I laughed, though my chest felt tight.

Everything changed that December. The director called me to her office. There was a possibility, she said. A process. I was single, yes, but had a stable job, good references. If I truly wanted…

“The girls ask about it all the time,” she added, looking over her glasses. “Especially Lucía.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I thought about my one-bedroom apartment. My job that required me to travel two weeks a month. Changing diapers, helping with homework, attending parent meetings. Everything I didn’t know about being a parent.

I thought about my freedom.

And I thought about two girls who only had each other.

I returned to the orphanage Friday. Lucía and Sofía were in the garden, and when they saw me, they ran toward me. Sofía leapt into my arms, but Lucía stopped halfway, as if she could read my face.

“Are you going to adopt us?” Sofía asked, clinging to my neck. “Last night I dreamed we lived in your house and you made us chocolate chip pancakes.”

Lucía said nothing. She just looked at me.

I knelt down in front of them.

“Listen to me,” my voice was more broken than I intended. “I… I came to say goodbye.”

The silence was deafening.

“You’re leaving?” Sofía whispered.

“For a while. It’s work. But I…”

“It’s like everyone else,” Lucía interrupted, her voice firm, tears barely held back. “Everyone says they’ll come back. Nobody comes back.”

“Lucía…”

“No!” she screamed now, drawing the attention of the other children. “You made us believe we mattered! That someone finally wanted us!”

“I do…”

“Then why don’t you stay?” Her tears finally fell. “Why does no one ever stay?”

Sofía began crying too, but wouldn’t let go of my neck. Lucía ran back toward the building. I wanted to follow, but the director shook her head.

“Let her be. She needs to process it her way.”

It took me twenty minutes to calm Sofía enough to let me go. When I finally released her, she wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

“Are you really coming back?” she asked softly.

I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have promised something I wasn’t sure about.

“I’ll come back,” I said. I promised.

Sofía nodded, though she didn’t believe me. I could see it in her eyes.

At the door, I found Lucía sitting on the stairs. She didn’t look up.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she said quietly.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“Yes, I do. Mom used to say yelling doesn’t fix anything. But… I thought you were different.”

I sat beside her.

“Lucía, look at me.”

Slowly, she turned her face toward mine.

“I’ll come back,” I repeated. “I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But I will find a way. Okay?”

She studied my face for a long moment.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

Lucía hooked her pinky around mine.

That was two months ago.

Now, I’m at the airport, with a suitcase heavier than my conscience and a three-year contract in Singapore that could change my career forever. My flight leaves in forty minutes.

My phone vibrates. A message from the director: “Lucía asks if you’re coming today. I told her you’re probably busy. She said it doesn’t matter. She’ll wait by the window as always.”

I glance at the clock, then at the boarding gate.

My fingers tighten around the ticket as I remember Lucía’s pinky entwined with mine. I remember the chocolate chip pancakes Sofía dreamed I made. I remember what it feels like to be important to someone.

I remember my promise.

The airplane doors are closing. A flight attendant signals me hurriedly. My phone vibrates again, but I don’t take it out of my pocket.

I already know what it says.

The question is: what am I going to do about it?