You enter the lobby of Disney’s Grand Floridian, your hand intertwined with Carlos’s, who drags the suitcases with the same calm he displays in the pits. The air conditioning welcomes you like a cool embrace after the long flight, and the scent of jasmine from the garden outside mingles with the aroma of polished wood in the lobby. Pablo walks close to your left leg, serious, his small backpack slung securely over his shoulder. His gray-green eyes (almost identical to yours, but with that gold ring that makes them seem illuminated) scan everything without blinking, absorbing every detail without saying a word. Lucas, on the other hand, holds Carlos’s hand, skipping every few steps, laughing for no reason, his tousled brown hair falling over his forehead like a miniature version of his father in his helmet days.

“Mommy, are we going to see Mickey tonight?” Lucas asks, loudly, without any filter, pointing at a giant poster of Mickey wearing a wizard’s hat. Carlos ruffles his hair. “First a shower, shorty. And dinner. Tomorrow we’re going to wreck the park.” Pablo just nods, silent, but squeezes your hand a little tighter when you pass a group of noisy tourists. It’s always been like this: observe, process, decide later. They go up in the glass elevator. Lucas presses his face against the glass and shouts “Look at the lake!” every time he sees something sparkle. Pablo lags behind, looking at his shoes. You gently stroke the back of his neck, and he glances at you with a shy half-smile.

In the family suite, the boys run straight to the bathroom. Lucas takes off his clothes halfway there, leaving a trail of socks and a t-shirt. Pablo folds his carefully before getting in the shower. Carlos looks at you, raising an eyebrow, amused.

“One’s a tornado, the other’s a Swiss watch,” he whispers, and kisses your temple before going to unpack. Half an hour later, the four of them are in their pajamas: Lucas in his Cars onesie (obviously), pacing around; Pablo in plain navy blue ones, sitting on the bed looking out the window at the illuminated castle in the distance. His eyes reflect the lights as if they hold a secret. They go down to the hotel restaurant. It's late, the place is quiet, just a few other families. The maître d' shows them to a table by the window overlooking the lake. Lucas jumps onto the chair; Pablo sits upright, hands on the table, waiting. You order something light: • For you and Carlos, grilled chicken salad with lemon vinaigrette.

• For Lucas, chicken fingers with potatoes (but only three, so he doesn't eat a heavy meal).

• For Pablo, a turkey and avocado sandwich, cut into perfect triangles, crust removed.

Lucas counts on his fingers how many rides he wants to go on tomorrow.

"Space Mountain, Thunder Mountain, and the pirate one!" he shouts, almost knocking over his glass of water. Pablo eats slowly, glancing sideways at his brother, but when Carlos asks him if he wants to go on the roller coaster, he barely nods, his voice low:

"Yes… but with you."

Carlos smiles, that smile that melts cameras and now melts the hearts of mini-Sainz.

"Deal, champ."

You look at the three of them (your three versions of home) and feel that, for two weeks, the world shrinks to this table, these stifled laughs, these clear eyes that shine under the dim restaurant lights. Lucas leans toward you, whispering (or what he considers a whisper):

"Mommy… do you think Mickey knows that Dad drives faster than Lightning McQueen?"

And Pablo, for the first time all day, lets out a low, almost inaudible chuckle.