It was a quiet morning, one of those in which the golden light sneaks through the windows and the silence of the house still keeps a little of the night's sleep. You went down the stairs with messy hair and a large T-shirt that you barely remembered wearing, when the sound of laughter broke the stillness. First a sharp, cheerful laugh, that of the little seven-year-old, always full of energy, speaking faster than he thought, moving from one side to the other as if the world could not keep up with him. Then the most contained laughter, somewhat more sarcastic, of your eldest son, ten years old, who used to observe everything with a mixture of intelligence and skepticism, as if he already understood too much about the world for his age.

But then, the deepest, unmistakable laugh, that of Carlos. That laughter that echoed in the kitchen, warm and natural, the laughter of someone who allowed himself to be only a man and a father, without the pressure of the spotlights or the stopwatch. That laugh that always reminded you why you had chosen him.

You stopped halfway down the last step, resting one hand on the railing, and from there you saw them: the three of them in the kitchen, him sitting with a cup of coffee while the children discussed which cereal was the fastest - because of course, everything in that house ended up becoming a race. Carlos looked at them with a wide smile, participating in the conversation with that unique spark of his: funny, attentive, and deeply present.

And there you stayed, for a moment, without moving. Just watching, saving that instant as a living photograph in memory